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K 


THE 


n0ttT-i[tttag: 


OTHER    TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 


BOSTON : 
JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields.  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1876. 


v. 


Copyright,  1851. 
BY   NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


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PRETACE. 


TO    HORATIO    BRIDGE,   ESQ.,  U.  S.   N. 


Y  DEAR  BRIDGE:  — Some  of  the  more  crab- 
bed of  my  critics,  I  understand,  have  pro- 
nounced your  friend  egotistical,  indiscreet,  and 
even  impertinent,  on  account  of  the  Prefaces  and  Intro- 
ductions  witli  wliich,  on  several  occasions,  he  has  seen  fit 
to  pave  tlic  reader's  way  into  the  interior  edifice  of  a  book. 
In  the  justice  of  tliis  censure  I  do  not  exactly  concur,  for 
tlie  reasons,  on  tlie  one  hand,  that  the  public  generally 
has  negatived  the  idea  of  undue  freedom  on  the  author's 
part,  by  evincing,  it  seems  to  me,  rather  more  interest  in 
these  aforesaid  Introductions  than  in  the  stories  which 
followed;  and  that,  on  the  otiicr  hand,  with  whatever 
appearance  of  confidential  intimacy,  I  have  been  especially 
careful  to  make  no  disclosures  respecting  myself  which 
the  most  indifferent  observer  might  not  have  been  ac- 
quainted with,  and  which  I  M-as  not  perfectly  willing  that 
my  worst  enemy  should  know.  I  might  further  justify 
myself,  on  the  plea  that,  ever  since  my  youth,  I  have 
been  addressing  a  very  limited  circle  of  friendly  rcad2rs. 


^n  PUEFACE. 

without  much  clanger  of  being  overheard  by  the  pubUc 
at  large ;  and  that  the  habits  thus  acquired  might  par- 
donably continue,  although  strangers  may  have  begun  to 
mingle  with  my  audience. 

But  the  charge,  I  am  bold  to  say,  is  not  a  reasonable 
one,  in  any  view  which  we  can  fairly  take  of  it.  There 
is  no  harm,  but,  on  the  contrary,  good,  in  arraying  some 
of  the  ordinary  facts  ■  of  life  in  a  slightly  idealized  and 
artistic  guise.  I  have  taken  facts  which  relate  to  myself, 
because  they  chance  to  be  nearest  at  hand,  and  likewise 
are  my  own  property.  And,  as  for  egotism,  a  person, 
who  has  been  burrowing,  to  his  utmost  ability,  into  the 
depths  of  our  common  nature,  for  the  purposes  of  psycho- 
logical romance,  —  and  who  pursues  his  researches  in 
that  dusky  region,  as  he  needs  must,  as  well  by  the  tact 
of  sympathy  as  by  the  light  of  observation,  —  will  smile 
at  incurring  such  an  imputation  in  virtue  of  a  little 
preliminary  talk  about  his  external  habits,  his  abode,  his 
casual  associates,  and  other  matters  entirely  upon  the 
surface.  These  things  hide  the  man,  instead  of  display- 
ing him.  Ton  must  make  quite  another  kind  of  inquest, 
and  look  through  the  whole  rauge  of  his  fictitious  charac- 
ters, good  and  evil,  in  order  to  detect  any  of  his  essential 
traits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  there  can  be  no  question  as  to 
the  propriety  of  my  inscribing  this  volume  of  earlier  and 
later  sketches  to  you,  and  pausing  liere,  a  few  moments, 
to  speak  of  them,  as  friend  speaks  to  friend ;  still  being 
cautious,  however,  that  the  public  and  the  critics  shall 
overhear  nothing  which  we  care  about  concealing.  On 
you,  if  on  no  other  person,  I  am  entitled  to  rely,  to 


PREFACE.  Vll 

sustain  the  position  of  my  Dedicatee.  If  anybody  is  re- 
sponsible for  my  being  at  this  day  an  author,  it  is  your- 
self. I  know  not  whence  your  faith  came;  but,  while 
we  were  lads  together  at  a  country  college,  — gathering 
blueberries,  in  study-hours,  under  those  tall  academic 
pines ;  or  watching  the  great  logs,  as  they  tumbled  along 
the  current  of  the  Androscoggin;  or  shooting  pigeons 
and  gray  squirrels  in  the  woods ;  or  bat-fowling  in  the 
summer  twiliglit;  or  catching  trouts  in  that  shadowy 
little  stream  which,  I  suppose,  is  still  wandering  river- 
ward  through  the  forest,  — though  you  and  I  wll  never 
cast  a  line  in  it  again,  —  two  idle  lads,  in  short  (as  we 
need  not  fear  to  acknowledge  now),  doing  a  hundred 
things  that  the  Faculty  never  heard  of,  or  else  it  had 
been  the  worse  for  us,  —  still  it  w^as  your  prognostic 
of  your  friend's  destiny,  that  he  was  to  be  a  writer  of 
fiction. 

And  a  fiction-monger,  in  due  season,  he  became.  But 
was  there  ever  such  aweary  delay  in  obtaining  the  slight- 
est recognition  from  the  public,  as  in  my  case  ?  I  sat 
down  by  the  wayside  of  life,  like  a  man  under  enchant- 
ment, and  a  shrubbery  sprung  up  around  me,  and  the 
bushes  grew  to  be  saplings,  and  the  saplings  became 
trees,  until  no  exit  appeared  possible,  through  the  en- 
tangling depths  of  my  obscurity.  And  there,  perhaps,  I 
sliould  be  sitting  at  this  moment,  with  the  moss  on  the 
imprisoning  tree-trunks,  and  the  yellow  leaves  of  more 
than  a  score  of  autumns  piled  above  me,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  you.  For  it  was  through  your  interposition 
—  and  that,  moreover,  unknown  to  himself — that  j-our 
early  friend  was  brought  before   the   public,  somewhat 


Vlll  PIJEFACE. 

more  prominently  than  theretofore,  in  the  first  volume  of 
Twice-told  Tales.  Not  a  publisher  in  America,  I  pre- 
sume, would  have  thought  well  enough  of  my  forgotten 
or  never-noticed  stories  to  risk  the  expense  of  print  and 
paper;  nor  do  I  say  this  with  any  purpose  of  casting 
odium  on  the  respectable  fraternity  of  booksellers,  for 
their  blindness  to  my  wonderful  merit.  To  confess  the 
truth,  I  doubted  of  the  public  recognition  quite  as  much 
as  they  could  do.  So  much  the  more  generous  was  your 
confidence  ;  and  knowing,  as  I  do,  that  it  was  founded 
on  old  friendship  rather  than  cold  criticism,  I  value  it 
only  the  more  for  that. 

So,  now,  when  I  turn  back  upon  my  path,  lighted  by 
a  transitory  gleam  of  public  ftivor,  to  pick  up  a  few  arti- 
cles which  were  left  out  of  my  former  collections,  I  take 
pleasure  in  making  thcni  the  memorial  of  our  very  long 
and  unbroken  connection.  Some  of  these  sketches  were 
among  the  earliest  that  I  wrote,  and,  after  lying  for 
years  in  manuscript,  they  at  last  skulked  into  the  An- 
nuals or  Magazines,  and  have  hidden  themselves  there 
ever  since.  Others  were  the  productions  of  a  later  pe- 
riod; others,  again,  were  written  recently.  The  com- 
parison of  these  various  trifles  —  the  indices  of  intellec- 
tual condition  at  far  separate  epochs  — affects  me  with  a 
singular  complexity  of  regrets.  I  am  disposed  to  quar- 
rel with  the  earlier  sketches,  both  because  a  mature  judg- 
ment discerns  so  many  faults,  and  still  more  because  they 
come  so  nearly  up  to  the  standard  of  the  best  that  I  can 
achieve  now.  The  ripened  autumnal  fruit  tastes  but  lit- 
tle better  than  the  early  windfalls.  It  would,  indeed, 
be  mortifying  to  believe  that  the  summer-time  of  life  has 


PREFACE.  IX 

passed  away,  without  any  greater  progress  and  improve- 
ment than  is  indicated  here.  But  —  at  least,  so  I 
would  fain  hope  —  these  things  are  scarcely  to  be  de- 
pended upon,  as  measures  of  the  intellectual  and  moral 
man.  In  youth,  men  are  apt  to  write  more  wisely  than 
they  really  know  or  feel ;  and  the  remainder  of  life  may 
be  not  idly  spent  in  realizing  and  convincing  themselves 
of  the  wisdom  which  they  uttered  long  ago.  The  truth 
that  was  only  in  tho  fancy  then  may  have  siuce  become  a 
substance  in  the  mind  and  heart. 

1  have  nothing  further,  I  think,  to  say;  unless  it  be 
that  the  public  need  not  dread  my  again  trespassing  on 
its  kindness,  with  any  more  of  these  musty  and  mouse- 
nibbled  leaves  of  old  periodicals,  transformed,  by  the 
magic  arts  of  my  friendly  publishers,  into  a  new  book. 
These  are  the  last.  Or,  if  a  few  still  remain,' they  are 
either  such  as  no  paternal  partiality  could  induce  the 
author  to  think  worth  preserving,  or  else  they  have  got 
into  some  very  dark  and  dusty  hiding-place,  quite  out 
of  my  own  remembrance  and  whence  no  researches  can 
avail  to  unearth  them.  So  there  let  them  rest. 
Very  sincerely  yours, 

N.  H. 
Lenox,  November  1,  1851. 


CONTENTS. 

— « — 

Page 

The  Snow-Image  :  a  Childish  Miracle         .        .  13 

The  Great  Stone  Face 34 

Main  Street •    .  59 

Ethan  Brand 95 

A  Bell's  Biography 117 

Sylph  Etheuege 126 

The  Canterbury  Pilgrims 13fi 

Old  News.       1 149 

II.    The  Old  French  War        .  159 

III.    The  Old  Tory         .         .         .  172 

The  Man  of  Adamant:  an  Apologue   .        .         .  181 

The  Devil  in  Manuscript 191 

John  Inglefield's  Thanksgiving  ....  201 


Xn  CONTEXTS. 

Old  Ticonderoga  :  a  Picture  of  the  Past  .  .     208 

The  Wives  of  the  Dead 215 

Little  Daffydowndilly  .         .         .         .        .  .     223 

My  Kinsman,  Major  Molineux          .        .        .  232 


THE   SNOW-IMAGE: 


A  CHILDISH  MIRACLE. 


'g^g^'lNE  afternoon  of  a  cold  winter's  day,  when  the 
^1|  sun  shone  forth  with  chilly  brightness,  after  a 
Sim  long  storm,  two  children  asked  leave  of  their 
mother  to  run  out  and  play  in  the  new-fallen  snow.  The 
elder  child  was  a  little  girl,  whom,  because  she  Mas  of  a 
tender  and  modest  disposition,  and  was  thought  to  be 
very  beautiful,  her  parents,  and  other  people  who  were 
familiar  with  her,  used  to  call  Violet.  But  her  brother 
was  known  by  the  style  and  title  of  Peony,  on  account  of 
the  ruddiness  of  his  broad  and  round  little  phiz,  which 
made  everybody  think  of  sunshine  and  great  scarlet 
flowers.  The  father  of  these  two  children,  a  certain  Mr. 
Lindsey,  it  is  important  to  say,  was  an  excellent  but  ex- 
ceedingly matter-of-fact  sort  of  man,  a  dealer  in  hardware, 
and  was  sturdily  accustomed  to  take  what  is  called  the 
common-sense  view  of  all  matters  that  came  under  his 
consideration.  With  a  heart  about  as  tender  as  other 
people's,  he  had  a  head  as  hard  and  impenetral)le,  and 
therefore,  perhaps,  as  empty,  as  one  of  the  iron  pots 
which  it  was  a  part  of  his  business  to  sell.  The  mother's 
character,  on  the  other  hand,  had  a  strain  of  poetry  in  it, 
a  trait  of  unworldly  beauty,  —  a  delicate  and  dewy  flower, 


14  THE    SXOW    i:\[AGE  : 

as  it  were,  that  had  survived  out  of  her  iniagiuative  youth, 
and  still  kept  itself  alive  amid  the  dusty  realities  of  mat- 
rimony and  motherhood. 

So,  Violet  and  Peony,  as  I  began  with  saying,  be- 
sought their  mother  to  let  them  run  out  and  play  in  the 
new  snow ;  for,  though  it  had  looked  so  dreary  and  dis- 
mal, drifting  downward  out  of  the  gray  sky,  it  had  a  very 
cheerful  aspect,  now  that  the  sun  was  shining  on  it.  The 
children  dwelt  in  a  city,  and  had  no  wider  play-])lace  than 
a  little  gardsn  before  ths  house,  divided  by  a  white  fence 
from  the  street,  and  with  a  psar-tree  and  two  or  three 
plum-trees  overshadowing  it,  and  some  rose-bushes  just 
in  front  of  the  parlor-windows.  The  trees  and  shrubs, 
however,  were  now  leafless,  and  their  twigs  were  envel- 
oped in  the  hglit  snow,  which  thus  made  a  kind  of  win- 
try foliage,  with  here  and  there  a  pendent  icicle  for  the 
fruit. 

"  Yes,  Violet,  — yes,  my  little  Peony,"  said  their  kind 
mother ;  "  you  may  go  out  and  play  in  the  new  snow." 

Accordingly,-  the  good  lady  bundled  up  her  darlings  in 
woollen  jackets  and  wadded  sacks,  and  put  comforters 
round  their  necks,  and  a  pair  of  striped  gaiters  on  each 
little  pair  of  legs,  and  worsted  mittens  on  their  hands, 
and  gave  them  a  kiss  apiece,  by  way  of  a  spell  to  keep 
away  Jack  Frost.  Forth  salHed  the  two  children,  with  a 
hop-skip-and-jump,  that  carried  them  at  once  into  the  very 
heart  of  a  huge  snow-drift,  whence  Violet  emerged  like  a 
snow-bunting,  while  little  Peony  floundered  out  with  his 
round  face  in  full  bloom.  Then  what  a  merry  time  had 
they  !  To  look  at  them,  frolicking  in  the  wintry  garden, 
you  would  have  thought  that  the  dark  and  pitiless  storm 
liad  been  sent  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  provide  a  new 
plaything  for  Violet  and  Peony  ;  and  that  they  themselves 
had  been  created,  as  the  snow-birds  were,  to  take  delight 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  15 

only  in  the  tciupsst,  and  in  the  white  mantle  wliicli  it 
spread  over  the  earth. 

At  last,  when  they  had  frosted  one  another  all  over 
with  handfuls  of  snow,  Violet,  after  laughing  heartily  at 
little  Peony's  figure,  was  struck  with  a  new  idea. 

"  You  look  exactly  like  a  snow-image,  Peony,"  said 
she,  "  if  your  cheeks  were  not  so  red.  And  that  puts  me 
in  mind  !  Let  us  make  an  image  out  of  snow,  —  an  im- 
age of  a  little  girl,  — and  it  shall  be  our  sister,  and  shall 
run  about  and  play  with  us  all  winter  long.  Won't  it  be 
nice?  " 

"0,  yes  !  "  cried  Peony,  as  plainly  as  he  could  speak, 
for  he  was  but  a  little  boy.  "  That  will  be  nice  !  And 
mamma  shall  see  it !  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Violet;  "mamma  shall  see  the  new 
little  girl.  But  she  must  not  make  her  come  into  the 
warm  parlor ;  for,  you  know,  our  little  snow-sister  will 
not  love  the  warmth." 

And  forthwith  the  children  began  this  great  business 
of  making  a  snow-image  that  should  runabout;  while 
their  mother,  who  was  sitting  at  the  window  and  over- 
heard some  of  their  talk,  could  not*  help  smiling  at  the 
gravity  with  which  they  set  about  it.  They  really  seemed 
to  imagine  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty  whatever  in 
creating  a  live  little  girl  out  of  the  snow.  And,  to  say 
the  truth,  if  miracles  are  ever  to  be  wrought,  it  will  be  by 
putting  our  hands  to  the  work  in  precisely  such  a  simple 
and  undoubting  frame  of  mind  as  that  in  which  Violet 
and  Peony  now  undertook  to  perform  one,  without  so 
much  as  knowing  that  it  was  a  miracle.  So  thought  the 
mother;  and  thought,  likewise,  that  the  new  snow,  just 
fallen  from  heaven,  would  be  e.\cellent  material  to  make 
new  beings  of,  if  it  v.-ere  not  so  very  cold.  She  gazed  at 
the  children  a  moment  longer,  delighting  to  watch  their 


16  THE    SXOW-niAGE: 

little  figures,  —  the  girl,  tall  for  her  age,  graceful  and 
agile,  and  so  delicately  colored  that  she  looked  like  a 
cheerful  thouglit,  more  than  a  physical  reality;  while 
Peony  expanded  in  breadth  rather  than  height,  and  rolled 
along"^  on  his  short  and  sturdy  legs  as  substantial  as  an 
elephant,  though  not  quite  so  big.  Than  the  mother  re- 
sumed her  work.  What  it  was  I  forget ;  but  she  was 
eitlier  trimming  a  silken  bonnet  for  Violet,  or  darning  a 
pair  of  stockings  for  little  Peony's  short  legs.  Again, 
however,  and  again,  and  yet  other  agains,  she  could  not 
help  turning  her  head  to  the  window  to  see  how  the  chil- 
dren got  on  with  their  snow-image. 

Indeed,  it  was  an  exceedingly  ])leasant  sight,  those 
bright  little  souls  at  their  tasks  !  Moreover,  it  was  really 
wonderful  to  observe  how  knowingly  and  skilfully  they 
managed  the  matter.  Violet  assumed  the  chief  direction, 
and  told  Peony  what  to  do,  while,  with  her  own  deHcate 
fingers,  she  shaped  out  all  the  nicer  parts  of  the  snow- 
figure.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  not  so  much  to  be  made  by 
the  children,  as  to  grow  up  under  their  hands,  while  they 
were  playing  and  prattling  about  it.  Their  mother  was 
quite  surprised  at  this ;  and  the  longer  she  looked,  the 
more  and  more  surprised  she  grew. 

"  Wliat  remarkable  children  mine  are  !  "  thought  slie, 
smiling  witli  a  mother's  pride ;  and,  smiling  at  herself, 
too,  for  being  so  proud  of  them.  "  What  other  children 
could  have  made  anything  so  like  a  little  girl's  figure 
out  of  snow  at  the  first  trial?  Well ;  — but  now  I  must 
finish  Peony's  new  frock,  for  his  grandfather  is  coming 
to-morrow,  and  I  want  the  little  fellow  to  look  hand- 
some." 

So  she  took  up  the  frock,  and  was  soon  as  busily  at 
work  again  witli  her  needle  as  the  two  children  with  their 
snow-image.     But  still,  as  the  needle  travelled  hither  and 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  17 

thither  througli  the  seams  of  the  dress,  tlie  mother  made 
her  toil  light  and  happy  by  listening  to  the  airy  voices  of 
Violet  and  Peony.  Tliey  kept  talking  to  one  another  all 
the  time,  their  tongues  being  quite  as  active  as  ihcir  feet 
and  liands.  Except  at  intervals,  she  could  not  distinctly 
hear  what  was  said,  but  had  merely  a  sweet  impression 
that  they  were  in  a  most  loving  mood,  and  were  enjoying 
themselves  higlily,  and  that  tlie  business  of  making  the 
snow-image  went  prosperously  on.  Now  and  then,  liow- 
ever,  when  Violet  and  Peony  happened  to  raise  their 
voices,  the  words  were  as  audible  as  if  they  had  been 
spoken  in  the  very  parlor,  where  tlie  mother  sat.  O, 
how  delightfully  those  words  echoed  in  her  heart,  even 
though  they  meant  nothing  so  very  Avise  or  wonderful, 
after  all ! 

But  you  must  know  a  mother  listens  with  her  heart, 
much  more  than  with  her  ears;  and  thus  she  is  often 
delighted  with  the  trills  of  celestial  music,  when  other 
people  can  hear  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"Peony,  Peony  !  "  cried  Violet  to  her  brother,  who  had 
gone  to  another  part  of  the  garden,  "  bring  me  some  of 
that  fresh  snow,  Peony,  from  the  very  farthest  corner, 
where  we  have  not  been  trampling.  I  want  it  to  shape 
our  little  snow-sister's  bosom  with.  You  know  that  part 
must  be  quite  pure,  just  as  it  came  out  of  the  sky  !  " 

"  Here  it  is,  Violet !  "  answered  Peony,  in  his  blulF 
tone, — but  a  very  sweet  tone,  too,  —  as  he  came  floun- 
dering through  the  half-trodden  drifts.  "Here  is  the 
snow  for  her  little  bosom.  O  Violet,  how  bcau-ti-ful  she 
begins  to  look  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Violet,  thoughtfully  and  quietly;  "our 
snow-sister  does  look  very  lovely.  I  did  not  quite  know, 
Peony,  that  we  could  make  such  a  sweet  little  girl  as 
this." 


18  THE    SXOW-IMAGE: 

The  mother,  as  she  hstened,  tliought  how  fit  and  de- 
Hghtful  an  incident  it  would  be,  if  fairies,  or,  still  better, 
if  angel-children  were  to  come  from  paradise,  and  play 
invisibly  with  her  own  darlings,  and  help  them  to  make 
their  snow-image,  giving  it  the  features  of  celestial  baby- 
hood !  Yiolet  and  Peony  would  not  be  aware  of  their  im- 
mortal playmates,  —  only  they  would  see  that  the  image 
grew  very  beautiful  while  they  worked  at  it,  and  would 
think  that  they  themselves  had  done  it  all. 

"My  little  girl  and  boy  deserve  such  playmates,  if 
mortal  children  ever  did!"  said  the  mother  to  herself; 
and  then  she  smiled  again  at  her  own  motherly  pride. 

Nevertheless,  the  idea  seized  upon  her  imagiiuitiou ; 
and,  ever  and  anon,  she  took  a  glimpse  out  of  tlie  win- 
dow, half  dreaming  that  she  might  see  the  golden-haired 
children  of  paradise  sporting  with  her  own  golden-haired 
Violet  and  bright-cheeked  Peony. 

Now,  for  a  few  moments,  there  was  a  busy  and  ear- 
nest, but  indistinct  hum  of  the  two  children's  voices,  as 
Violet  and  Peony  wrought  together  with  one  happy 
consent.  Violet  still  seemed  to  be  the  guiding  spirit, 
M'hile  Peony  acted  rather  as  a  laborer,  and  brought  her 
the  snow  from  far  and  near.  And  yet  the  little  urchin 
evidently  had  a  proper  understanding  of  the  matter, 
too !       "^ 

"Peony,  Peony  !  "  cried  Violet;  for  her  brother  was 
again  at  the  other  side  of  the  garden.  "  Bring  me  those 
light  wreaths  of  snow  that  have  rested  on  the  lower 
branches  of  the  pear-tree.  You  can  clamber  on  the 
snow-drift.  Peony,  and  reach  them  easily.  I  must  have 
them  to  make  some  ringlets  for  our  snow-sister's  head !  " 

"  Here  they  are,  Violet !  "  answered  the  little  boy. 
"  Take  care  you  do  not  break  them.  Well  done  !  Well 
done  !     How  pretty  !  " 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  10 

"Does  she  not  look  sweetly?"  said  Violet,  witii  a 
very  satisfied  tone ;  "  and  uow  \vc  must,  have  some  little 
shining  bits  of  ice,  to  make  the  brightness  of  her  eyes. 
She  is  not  finished  yet.  Mamma  will  see  how  very 
beautiful  she  is  ;  but  papa  will  say,  '  Tush  !  nonsense  ! 
—  come  in  out  of  the  cold  ! '  " 

"  Let  us  call  mamma  to  look  out,"  said  Peony  ;  and 
then  he  shouted  lustily,  "Mamma!  mamma!!  mam- 
ma ! ! !  Look  out,  and  see  what  a  nice  'ittle  girl  we 
are  making !  " 

The  mother  put  down  her  work,  for  an  instant,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window.  But  it  so  happened  that  the 
suu  —  for  this  was  one  of  the  shortest  days  of  the  whole 
year  —  had  sunken  so  nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  world, 
that  his  setting  shine  came  obliquely  into  the  lady's  eyes. 
So  she  was  dazzled,  you  must  understand,  and  could  not 
very  distinctly  observe  what  was  in  the  garden.  Still, 
however,  through  all  that  bright,  blinding  dazzle  of  the 
sun  and  the  new  snow,  she  beheld  a  snudl  white  figure 
in  the  garden,  that  seemed  to  have  a  wonderful  deal  of 
human  likeness  about  it.  And  she  saw  Violet  and 
Peony,  —  indeed,  she  looked  more  at  them  than  at  the 
image,  —  she  saw  the  two  children  still  at  work  ;  Peony 
bringing  fresh  snow,  and  Violet  applying  it  to  the  fig- 
ure as  scientifically  as  a  sculptor  adds  clay  to  his  model. 
Lidistinctly  as  she  discerned  the  snow-child,  the  mother 
thought  to  herself  that  never  before  was  there  a  snow- 
figure  so  cunningly  made,  nor  ever  such  a  dear  little 
girl  and  boy  to  make  it. 

"  They  do  everything  better  than  other  children,"  said 
she,  very  complacently.  "  No  wonder  they  make  better 
snow-images  !  " 

She  sat  down  again  to  her  work,  and  made  as  much 
haste  with  it  as  possible ;  because  twilight  would  soon 


20  THE    SXOW-niAGE: 

come,  and  Peony's  frock  was  not  yet  finished,  and  grand- 
father was  expected,  by  railroad,  pretty  early  in  the 
morning.  Faster  and  faster,  therefore,  went  her  flying 
fingers.  The  children,  likewise,  kept  busily  at  work  in 
the  garden,  and  still  the  mother  listened,  whenever  she 
could  catch  a  word.  She  was  amused  to  observe  how 
their  little  imaginations  had  got  mixed  up  with  what 
they  were  doing,  and  were  carried  away  by  it.  They 
seemed  positively  to  think  that  the  snow-child  would  run 
about  and  play  with  them. 

"  What  a  nice  playmate  she  will  be  for  us,  all  winter 
long  ! "  said  Violet.  "  I  hope  papa  will  not  be  afraid 
of  her  giving  us  a  cold !  Slia'  n't  you  love  her  dearly, 
Peony  ? " 

"0  yes!  "  cried  Peony.  "And  I  will  hug  h:'r,  and 
she  shall  sit  down  close  by  me,  and  drink  some  of  my 
warm  milk  !  " 

"  0  no,  Peony  !  "  answered  Violet,  with  grave  wisdom. 
"  That  will  not  do  at  all.  Warm  milk  will  not  be  whole- 
some for  our  little  snow-sister.  Little  snow-people,  like 
her,  eat  nothing  but  icicles.  No,  no,  Peony  ;  we  must 
not  give  her  auytlung  warm  to  drink !  " 

There  was  a  minute  or  two  of  silence ;  for  Peony, 
whose  short  legs  were  never  weary,  had  gone  on  a  pil- 
grimage again  to  the  other  side  of  the  garden.  All  of 
a  sudden,  Violet  cried  out,  loudly  and  joyfully,  — 

"  Look  here.  Peony  !  Come  quickly  !  A  light  has 
been  shining  on  her  cheek  out  of  that  rose-colored  cloud  I 
and  the  color  does  not  2:0  awav  !  Is  not  that  beau- 
tiful ! " 

"Yes;  it  is  beau-ti-ful,"  answered  Peony,  pronoun- 
cing the  three  syllables  with  deliberate  accuracy.  "  O 
Violet,  only  look  at  her  hair  !     It  is  all  like  gold  !  " 

"  O,  certainly,"  said  Violet,  with  tranquillity,  as  if  it 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  21 

were  very  mucli  a  matter  of  course,  "  That  color,  you 
know,  comes  from  the  golden  clouds,  that  we  see  up 
there  in  the  sky.  She  is  almost  finished  now.  But  her 
lips  must  he  made  very  red, — redder  than  her  cheeks. 
Perhaps,  Peony,  it  will  make  them  red,  if  we  both  kiss 
them !  " 

Accordhigly,  the  mother  heard  two  smart  little  smacks, 
as  if  both  her  children  were  kissing  the  snow-image  on 
its  frozen  mouth.  But,  as  this  did  not  seem  to  make 
the  lips  quite  red  enough,  Violet  next  pro])Osed  that 
the  snow-chiid  should  be  invited  to  kiss  Peony's  scarlet 
cheek. 

"Come,  'ittle  snow-sister,  kiss  me  !  "  cried  Peony. 

"  There  !  she  has  kissed  you,"  added  Violet,  "  and 
now  her  lips  are  very  red.  And  slie  blushed  a  little, 
too  !  " 

"  0,  what  a  cold  kiss  !  "  cried  Peony. 

Just  then,  there  came  a  breeze  of  the  pure  west-wind, 
sweeping  through  the  garden  and  rattling  the  parlor- 
windows.  It  sounded  so  wintry  cold,  that  the  mother 
was  about  to  tap  on  the  window-pane  with  her  thimbled 
finger,  to  summon  the  two  children  in,  Avhen  they  both 
cried  out  to  her  with  one  voice,  Thi  tone  was  not  a 
tone  of  surprise,  although  they  were  evidently  a  good 
deal  excited;  it  appeared  rather  as  if  they  M'ere  very 
much  rejoiced  at  some  event  that  had  now  happened, 
but  which  tliey  had  been  looking  for,  and  had  reckoned 
upon  all  along. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  We  have  finished  our  little  snow- 
sister,  and  she  is  running  about  the  garden  with  us !  " 

"  Wliat  imaginative  little  beings  my  children  are  !  " 
thought  the  mother,  putting  the  last  few  stitches  into 
Peony's  frock.  "  And  it  is  strange,  too,  that  they  make 
me  almost  as  much  a  child  as  they  themselves  arc  !     I 


22  THE    SXOW-IMAGE: 

cau  hardly  help  believing,  now,  that  the  snow-image  has 
really  come  to  life  !  " 

"  Dear  mamma !  "  cried  Violet,  "  pray  look  out  and 
see  what  a  sweet  playmate  we  have  !  " 

The  mother,  being  thus  entreated,  could  no  longer 
delay  to  look  forth  from  the  window.  The  sun  was  now 
gone  out  of  the  sky,  leaving,  however,  a  rich  inheritance 
of  his  brightness  among  those  purple  and  golden  clouds 
which  make  the  sunsets  of  winter  so  magnificent.  But 
there  was  not  the  slightest  gleam  or  dazzle,  either  on 
the  window  or  on  the  snow;  so  that  the  good  lady  could 
look  all  over  the  garden,  and  see  everything  and  every- 
body in  it.  And  what  do  you  think  she  saw  there  ? 
Violet  and  Peony,  of  course,  her  own  two  darling  chil- 
dren. Ah,  but  whom  or  what  did  she  besides  ?  Why,  if 
you  will  believe  me,  there  was  a  small  figure  of  a  girl, 
dressed  all  in  white,  with  rose-tinged  cheeks  and  ring- 
lets of  golden  hue,  playing  about  the  garden  with  the 
two  children !  A  stranger  though  she  was,  the  child 
seemed  to  be  on  as  familiar  terms  with  Violet  and  Peony, 
and  they  with  her,  as  if  all  the  three  had  been  play^ 
mates  during  the  whole  of  their  little  lives.  The  mother 
thought  to  herself  that  it  must  certainly  be  the  daughter 
of  one  of  the  neighbors,  and  that,  seeing  Violet  and 
Peony  in  the  garden,  the  child  had  run  across  the  street 
to  play  with  them.  So  this  kind  lady  went  to  the  door, 
intending  to  invite  the  little  runaway  into  her  comforta- 
ble parlor;  for,  now  that  the  sunshine  was  withdrawn, 
the  atmosphere,  out  of  doors,  was  already  growing  very 
cold. 

But,  after  opening  the  house-door,  she  stood  an  instant 
on  the  threshold,  hesitating  whether  she  ought  to  ask  the 
child  to  come  in,  or  whether  she  should  even  speak  to 
her.     Indeed,  she  almost  doubted  whether  it  were  a  real 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  ^3 

child,  after  all,  or  only  a  liglit  wreath  of  the  new-fallcu 
snow,  blown  iiither  and  thither  about  the  garden  by  the 
intensely  cold  west-wind.  There  was  certainly  some- 
thing very  singular  in  the  aspect  of  the  little  stranger. 
Among  all  the  children  of  the  neighborhood,  the  lady 
could  remember  no  such  face,  with  its  pure  wliite,  and 
delicate  rose-color,  and  the  golden  ringlets  tossing  about 
the  forehead  and  cheejcs.  And  as  for  her  dress,  which 
was  entirely  of  white,  and  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  it  was 
such  as  no  reasonable  woman  would  put  upon  a  little 
girl,  when  sending  her  out  to  play,  in  the  depth  of  win- 
ter. It  made  tiiis  kind  and  careful  mother  shiver  only 
to  look  at  those  small  feet,  with  nothing  in  the  world  ou 
them,  except  a  very  thin  pair  of  white  slippers.  Never- 
theless, airily  as  she  was  clad,  the  child  seemed  to  feel 
not  the  slightest  inconvenience  from  the  cold,  but  danced 
so  lightly  over  the  snow  that  the  tips  of  her  toes  left 
hardly  a  print  in  its  surface;  while  Violet  could  but  just 
keep  pace  with  her,  and  Peony's  short  legs  compelled 
liim  to  lag  behind. 

Once,  in  the  course  of  their  play,  the  strange  child 
placed  herself  between  Violet  and  Peony,  and  taking  a 
hand  of  each,  ski])ped  merrily  forward,  and  they  along 
with  her.  Almost  immediately,  however.  Peony  pulled 
away  his  little  fist,  and  began  to  rub  it  as  if  the  fingers 
were  tingling  with  cold;  M^iiile  Violet  also  released  iier- 
self,  though  with  less  abruptness,  gravely  remarking  that 
it  was  better  not  to  take  hold  of  hands.  The  Avhite- 
robed  damsel  said  not  a  word,  but  danced  about,  just  as 
merrily  as  before.  If  Violet  and  Peony  did  not  choose 
to  play  with  her,  she  could  make  just  as  good  a  ])laymate 
of  the  brisk  and  cold  west-wind,  which  kept  blowing  her 
all  about  the  garden,  and  took  such  liberties  with  her, 
that  they  seemed  to  have  been  friends  for  a  long  time. 


24  THE    SNOW-IMAGE: 

All  this  while,  the  mother  stood  oii  the  threshold,  won- 
dering how  a  little  girl  could  look  so  much  like  a  flying 
snow-drift,  or  how  a  snow-drift  could  look  so  verv  like  a 
little  girl. 

She  called  Violet,  and  whispered  to  her. 

"  Violet,  my  darling,  what  is  this  child's  name  ?  "  asked 
she.     "  Does  she  live  near  us  ?  " 

"  Why,  dearest  mamma,"  answered  Violet,  laughing  to 
think  that  her  mother  did  not  comprehend  so  very  plain 
an  affair,  "  this  is  our  little  snow-sister,  whom  we  have 
just  been  making  !  " 

"  Yes,  dear  mamma,"  cried  Peony,  running  to  his 
mother,  and  looking  up  simply  into  her  face.  "  This  is 
our  snow-image  !     Is  it  not  a  nice  'ittle  child  ?  " 

At  this  instant  a  flock  of  snow-birds  came  flitting 
through  the  air.  As  was  very  natural,  they  avoided 
Violet  and  Peony.  But,  —  and  this  looked  strange,  — 
they  flew  at  once  to  the  white-robed  child,  fluttered 
eagerly  about  her  head,  alighted  on  her  shoulders,  and 
seemed  to  claim  her  as  an  old  acquaintance.  She,  on 
her  part,  was  evidently  as  glad  to  see  these  little  birds,  , 
old  Winter's  grandchildren,  as  they  were  to  see  her,  and 
welcomed  them  by  holding  out  both  her  hands.  Here- 
upon, they  each  and  all  tried  to  alight  on  her  two  palms 
and  ten  small  fingers  and  thumbs,  crowding  one  another 
off,  with  an  immense  fluttering  of  their  tiny  wings.  One 
dear  little  bird  nestled  tenderly  in  her  bosom  ;  another 
put  its  bill  to  her  lips.  They  were  as  joyous,  all  the 
while,  and  seemed  as  much  in  their  element,  as  you  may 
have  seen  them  when  sporting  with  a  snow-storm. 

Violet  and  Peony  stood  laughing  at  this  pretty  sight : 
for  they  enjoyed  the  merry  time  which  their  new  play- 
mate was  having  with  these  small-winged  visitants,  al- 
most as  much  as  if  they  themselves  took  part  in  it. 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  25 

"Violet,"  said  her  motlier,  greatly  perplexed,  "tell 
me  the  truth,  without  auj  jest.  "Who  is  this  little 
girl?" 

"  My  darling  mamma,"  ansM'ered  Violet,  looking  seri- 
ously into  her  mother's  face,  and  apparently  surprised 
that  she  should  need  any  further  explanation,  "I  have 
told  you  truly  who  she  is.  It  is  our  little  snow-image, 
which  Peony  and  I  have  been  making.  Peony  will  tell 
you  so,  as  well  as  I." 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  asseverated  Peony,  with  much  grav- 
ity in  his  crimson  little  phiz  ;  "  this  is  'itile  snow-child. 
Is  not  she  a  nice  one  ?  But,  mamma,  her  hand,  is  oh, 
so  very  cold  !  " 

While  mamma  still  hesitated  what  to  think  and  what 
to  do,  the  street-gate  was  thrown  open,  and  the  father 
of  Violet  and  Peony  appeared,  wrapped  in  a  pilot-cloth 
sack,  with  a  fur  cap  drawn  down  over  his  ears,  and  the 
thickest  of  gloves  upon  his  hands.  Mr.  Lindscy  was  a 
middle-aged  man,  with  a  weary  and  yet  a  happy  look  in 
his  wind-flushed  and  frost-pinched  face,  as  if  he  had 
been  busy  all  the  day  long,  and  was  glad  to  get  back  to 
liis  quiet  home.  His  eyes  brightened  at  the  sight  of  his 
wife  and  children,  although  he  could  not  help  uttering  a 
word  or  two  of  surprise,  at  finding  the  whole  family  in 
the  open  air,  on  so  bleak  a  day,  and  after  sunset  too. 
He  soon  perceived  the  little  white  stranger,  sporting  to 
and  fro  in  the  garden,  like  a  dancing  snow-wreath,  and 
the  flock  of  snow-birds  fluttering  about  her  head. 

"  Pray,  what  little  girl  may  that  be?"  inquired  this 
very  sensible  man.  "  Surely  her  mother  must  be  crazy, 
to  let  her  go  out  in  such  bitter  weather  as  it  has  been 
to-day,  with  only  that  flimsy  white  gown  and  those  thin 
slippers  !  " 

"My  dear  husband,"  said  his  wife,  "I  know  no  more 
2 


26  THE    SNOW-IMAGE: 

about  the  little  thing  than  you  do.  Some  neighbor's 
child,  I  suppose.  Our  Violet  aud  Peony,"  she  added, 
laughing  at  herself  for  repeating  so  absurd  a  story,  "  in- 
sist that  she  is  nothing  but  a  snow-image,  which  they 
have  been  busy  about  in  the  garden,  almost  all  the  after- 
noon." 

As  she  said  this,  the  mother  glanced  her  eyes  to- 
ward the  spot  where  the  children's  snow-image  had 
been  made.  What  was  her  surprise,  on  perceiving  that 
there  was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  so  much  labor  !  —  no 
image  at  all! — no  piled  up  heap  of  snow!  —  nothing 
whatever,  save  the  prints  of  little  footsteps  around  a 
vacant  space ! 

"  This  is  very  strange  !  "  said  she. 

"What  is  strange,  dear  mother?"  asked  Violet. 
"  Dear  father,  do  not  vou  see  how  it  is  ?  This  is  our 
snow-image,  which  Peony  aud  I  have  made,  because  we 
w^anted  another  playmate.     Did  not  we.  Peony  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,"  said  crimson  Peony.  "  This  be  our 
'ittle  snow-sister.     Is  she  not  beau-ti-ful  ?    But  she  gave 


iss 


I  " 


me  such  a  cold  k 

"  Poh,  nonsense,  children  !  "  cried  their  good,  honest 
father,  who,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  had  an  ex- 
ceedingly commou-sensible  way  of  looking  at  matters. 
*'  Do  not  tell  me  of  making  live  figures  out  of  snow. 
Come,  wife  ;  this  little  stranger  must  not  stay  out  in  the 
bleak  air  a  moment  longer.  We  will  bring  her  into  the 
parlor ;  and  you  shall  give  her  a  supper  of  warm  bread 
and  milk,  and  make  her  as  comfortable  as  you  can. 
Meanwhile,  I  will  inquire  among  the  neighbors ;  or,  if 
necessary,  send  the  city-crier  about  the  streets,  to  give 
notice  of  a  lost  child." 

So  saying,  this  honest  and  very  kind-hearted  man  was 
going  toward  the  little  white  damsel,  with  the  best  in- 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  27 

tentions  in  the  world.  But  Violet  ami  Peony,  each  seiz- 
ing their  fatlier  by  the  hand,  earnestly  besought  him  not 
to  make  her  come  in. 

"  Dear  father,"  cried  Violet,  putting  herself  before 
him,  "  it  is  true  what  1  have  been  telling  you  !  This  is 
our  little  snow-girl,  and  she  cannot  live  any  longer  than 
while  she  breathes  the  cold  west-wind.  Do  not  make 
her  come  into  the  hot  room  !  " 

"Yes,  father,"  shouted  Peony,  stamping  his  little  foot, 
so  mightily  was  he  in  earnest,  "  this  be  nothing  but  our 
'ittle  snow-child  !     She  will  not  love  the  hot  fire !  " 

*'  Nonsense,  children,  nonsense,  nonsense  !  "  cried  the 
father,  half  vexed,  half  laughing  at  what  he  considered 
their  foolish  obstinacy.  "Run  into  the  house,  this  mo- 
ment !  It  is  too  late  to  play  any  longer,  now.  I  must 
take  care  of  this  little  girl  innnediately,  or  she  Avill  catch 
her  death-a-cold  ! " 

"  Husband  !  dear  husband  !  "  said  his  wife,  in  a  low 
voice,  —  for  she  had  been  looking  narrowly  at  the  snow- 
child,  and  was  more  perplexed  than  ever,  —  "  there  is 
something  very  singular  in  all  this.  You  will  think  me 
foolish,  —  but  —  but  —  may  it  not  be  that  some  invisible 
angel  has  been  attracted  by  the  simplicity  and  good  faith 
with  which  our  children  set  about  their  undertaking? 
May  he  not  have  spent  an  hour  of  his  inmiortality  in 
playing  with  those  dear  little  souls  ?  and  so  the  result  is 
what  we  call  a  miracle.  No,  no  !  Do  not  laugh  at  me ; 
I  see  what  a.  foolish  thought  it  is  !  " 

"  My  dear  wife,"  replied  the  husband,  laughing  heart- 
ily, "  you  are  as  much  a  child  as  Violet  and  Peony." 

And  in  one  sense  so  she  was,  for  all  tlirougii  life  she 
had  kept  her  lieart  full  of  childlike  simplicity  and  faith, 
which  was  as  pure  and  clear  as  crystal ;  and,  looking  at  all 
matters  through  this  transparent  medium,  she  sometimes 


28  THE    SXOW-IMAGE: 

saw  truths  so  profound,  that  other  people  laughed  at 
them  as  nonsense  and  absurdity. 

But  now  kind  Mr.  Lindsey  liad  entered  the  j]^arden, 
breaking  away  from  his  two  children,  who  still  sent  their 
shrill  voices  after  him,  beseeching  him  to  let  the  snow- 
cliild  stay  and  enjoy  herself  in  tlie  cold  west-wind.  As 
he  approached,  the  snow-birds  took  to  flight.  The  little 
white  damsel,  also,  fled  backward,  shaking  her  head,  as 
if  to  say,  "  Pray,  do  not  touch  me  !  "  and  roguishly,  as  it 
appeared,  leading  him  through  the  deepest  of  the  snow. 
Once,  the  good  man  stumbled,  and  floundered  down 
upon  his  face,  so  that,  gathering  himself  up  again,  with 
the  snow  sticking  to  his  rough  pilot-cloth  sack,  he 
looked  as  white  and  wintry  as  a  snow-image  of  the 
largest  size.  Some  of  the  neighbors,  meanwhile,  seeing 
him  from  their  windows,  wondered  what  could  possess 
poor  Mr.  Lindsey  to  be  running  about  his  garden  in 
pursuit  of  a  snow-drift,  which  the  west-wind  was  driving 
hither  and  thither!  At  length,  after  a  vast  deal  of 
trouble,  he  chased  the  little  stranger  into  a  corner,  where 
she  could  not  possibly  escape  him.  His  wife  had  been 
looking  on,  and,  it  being  nearly  twilight,  was  wonder- 
struck  to  observe  how  the  snow-child  gleamed  and 
sparkled,  and  how  she  seemed  to  shed  a  glow  all  round 
about  her ;  and  when  driven  into  the  corner,  she  posi- 
tively glistened  like  a  star !  It  was  a  frosty  kind  of 
brightness,  too,  like  that  of  an  icicle  in  the  moonlight. 
The  wife  thought  it  strange  that  good  Mr.  Lindsey 
should  see  nothing  remarkable  in  the  snow-child's  ap- 
pearance. 

"  Come,  yon  odd  little  thing  !  "  cried  the  honest  man, 
seizing  her  by  the  hand,  "  I  have  caught  you  at  last, 
and  M'ill  make  you  comfortable  in  spite  of  yourself.  We 
Mill  put  a  nice  warm  pair  of  worsted  stockings  on  your 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  29 

frozen  little  feet,  and  you  shall  have  a  good  thick  shawl 
to  wrap  yourself  in.  Your  poor  white  nose,  I  am  afraid, 
is  actually  frost-bitten.  But  we  will  make  it  all  right. 
Come  along  in." 

And  so,  Avith  a  most  benevolent  smile  on  his  sagacious 
visage,  all  purple  as  it  was  with  the  cold,  this  very  well- 
meaning  gentleman  took  the  snow-child  by  the  hand  and 
led  her  towards  the  house.  She  followed  him,  droop- 
ingly  and  reluctant ;  for  all  the  glow  and  sparkle  was 
gone  out  of  her  figure  ;  and  whereas  just  before  she  had 
resembled  a  bright,  frosty,  star-gemuied  evening,  with  a 
crimson  gleam  on  the  cold  horizon,  she  now  looked  as 
dull  and  languid  as  a  thaw.  As  kind  Mr.  Lindsey  led 
her  up  the  steps  of  the  door,  Violet  and  Peony  looked 
into  his  face,  —  their  eyes  full  of  tears,  whicli  froze 
before  they  could  run  down  their  cheeks,  —  and  again 
entreated  him  not  to  bring  their  snow-image  into  the 
house. 

"Not  bring  her  in  !  "  exclaimed  the  kind-hearted  man. 
*•'  Why,  you  are  crazy,  my  little  Violet !  —  quite  crazy, 
my  small  Peony!  She  is  so  cold,  already,  that  her 
hand  has  almost  frozen  mine,  in  spite  of  my  thick  gloves. 
Would  you  have  her  freeze  to  death  ?  " 

His  wife,  as  he  came  up  the  steps,  had  been  taking 
another  long,  earnest,  almost  awe-stricken  gaze  at  the 
little  white  stranger.  She  hardly  knew  whether  it  was 
a  dream  or  no  ;  l)ut  she  could  not  help  fancying  that  she 
saw  the  delicate  print  of  Violet's  fingers  on  the  child's 
neck.  It  looked  just  as  if,  while  Violet  was  shaping  out 
the  image,  she  had  given  it  a  gentle  pat  with  her  hand, 
and  had  neglected  to  smooth  the  impression  quite  away. 

"After  all,  husband,"  said  the  mother,  recurring  to 
her  idea  that  the  angels  would  be  as  much  delighted  to 
play  with  Violet  and  Peony  as  she  herself  was,  —  "after 


30  THE    SNOW-IMAGE: 

all,  she  does  look  strangely  like  a  snow-image!  I  do 
believe  she  is  made  of  snow  !  " 

A  puff  of  the  west-wind  blew  against  the  snow-child, 
and  again  she  sparkled  like  a  star. 

"  Snow !  "  repeated  good  Mr.  Lindsey,  drawing  the 
reluctant  guest  over  his  hospitable  threshold.  "  No 
wonder  she  looks  like  snow.  She  is  half  frozen,  poor 
little  thing !  But  a  good  fire  will  put  everything  to 
rights." 

Without  further  talk,  and  always  with  the  same  best 
intentions,  this  highly  benevolent  and  common-sensible 
individual  led  the  little  white  damsel  —  drooping,  droop- 
ing, drooping,  more  and  more  —  out  of  the  frosty  air, 
and  into  his  comfortable  parlor.  A  Heidenberg  stove, 
filled  to  tlie  brim  with  intensely  burning  anthracite,  was 
sending  a  bright  gleam  through  the  isinglass  of  its  iron 
door,  and  causing  the  vase  of  water  ou  its  top  to  fume 
and  bubble  with  excitement.  A  warm,  sultry  smell  was 
diffused  throughout  the  room.  A  thermometer  on  the 
wall  farthest  from  the  stove  stood  at  eighty  degrees. 
The  parlor  was  hung  with  red  curtains,  and  covered  with 
a  red  carpet,  and  looked  just  as  warm  as  it  felt.  The 
difference  betwixt  the  atmosphere  here  and  the  cold, 
wintry  twilight  out  of  doors,  was  like  stepping  at  once 
from  Nova  Zembla  to  the  hottest  part  of  India,  or  from 
the  North  Pole  into  an  oven.  0,  this  was  a  fine  place 
for  the  little  white  stranger  ! 

The  common-sensible  man  placed  the  snow-child  on 
the  hearth-rug,  right  in  front  of  the  hissing  and  fuming 
stove. 

"  Now  she  will  be  comfortable  !  "  cried  Mr.  Lindsey, 
rubbing  his  hands  and  looking  about  him,  with  the  pleas- 
antest  smile  you  ever  saw.  "Make  yourself  at  home, 
my  child." 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  31 

Sad,  sad  and  drooping,  looked  the  little  -white  maiden, 
as  she  stood  on  tlie  hearth-rug,  with  the  hot  blast  of  the 
stove  striking  through  her  like  a  pestilence.  Once,  she 
threw  a  glance  wistfully  toward  the  windows,  and  caught 
a  glimpse,  through  its  red  curtains,  of  the  snow-covered 
roofs,  and  the  stars  glimmering  frostily,  and  all  the  deli- 
cious intensity  of  the  cold  night.  The  bleak  wind  rattled 
the  window-panes,  as  if  it  were  summoning  her  to  come 
forth.  But  there  stood  the  snow-child,  drooping,  before 
the  hot  stove ! 

But  the  common-sensible  man  saw  nothing  amiss. 

"Come,  wife,"  said  he,  "let  her  have  a  pair  of  thick 
stockings  and  a  woollen  shawl  or  blanket  directly  ;  and 
tell  Dora  to  give  her  some  warm  supper  as  soon  as  the 
milk  boils.  You,  Violet  and  Peony,  amuse  your  little 
friend.  She  is  out  of  spirits,  you  see,  at  finding  herself 
in  a  strange  place.  For  my  part,  I  will  go  around  among 
the  neighbors,  and  find  out  where  she  belongs." 

The  mother,  meanwhile,  had  gone  in  search  of  the 
shawl  and  stockings ;  for  her  own  view  of  the  matter, 
however  subtle  and  delicate,  had  given  way,  as  it  always 
did,  to  the  stubborn  materialism  of  her  husband.  With- 
out hcedhig  the  remonstrances  of  his  two  children,  who 
still  kept  murmuring  that  their  little  snow-sister  did  not 
love  the  warmth,  good  Mr.  Lindsey  took  his  departure, 
shutting  the  parlor-door  carefully  behind  him.  Turning 
up  the  collar  of  his  sack  over  his  ears,  he  emerged  from 
the  house,  and  had  barely  reached  the  street-gate,  when 
he  was  recalled  by  the  screams  of  Violet  and  Peony, 
and  the  rapping  of  a  thimbled  finger  against  the  parlor 
window. 

"  Husband  !  husband  !  "  cried  his  wife,  showing  her 
horror-stricken  face  through  the,window-pancs.  "There 
is  no  need  of  going  for  the  child's  parents !  " 


32  THE    SNOW-niAGE: 

"We  told  you  so,  father!"  screamed  Violet  and 
Peouy,  as  he  re -entered  the  parlor.  "You  would  bring 
her  in ;  and  now  our  poor  —  dear  —  beau-ti-ful  little 
snow-sister  is  thawed  !  " 

And  their  own  sweet  little  faces  were  already  dissolved 
in  tears ;  so  that  their  father,  seeing  what  strange  things 
occasionally  happen  in  this  every-day  world,  felt  not  a 
little  anxious  lest  his  children  might  be  going  to  thaw 
too !  In  the  utmost  perplexity,  he  demanded  an  expla- 
nation of  his  M'ife.  She  could  only  reply,  that,  being 
summoned  to  the  parlor  by  the  cries  of  Violet  and  Peony, 
she  found  no  trace  of  the  little  white  maiden,  unless  it 
were  the  remains  of  a  heap  of  snow,  which,  while  she 
was  gazing  at  it,  melted  quite  away  upon  the  hearth-rug. 

"  And  there  you  see  all  that  is  left  of  it !  "  added  she, 
pointing  to  a  pool  of  water,  in  front  of  the  stoye. 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Violet,  looking  reproachfully  at 
him,  through  her  tears,  "  there  is  all  that  is  left  of  our 
dear  little  snow-sister  I  " 

"Naughty  father!"  cried  Peony,  stamping  his  foot, 
and  —  I  shudder  to  say  —  shaking  his  little  tist  at  the 
common-sensible  man.  "  We  told  you  how  it  would  be  ! 
What  for  did  you  bring  her  in  ?  " 

And  the  Heidenberg  stoye,  through  the  isinglass  of  its 
door,  seemed  to  glare  at  good  Mr.  Lindsey,  like  a  red- 
eyed  demon,  triumphing  in  the  mischief  which  it  had 
done ! 

This,  you  will  obserye,  was  one  of  those  rare  cases, 
which  yet  will  occasionally  happen,  where  common-sense 
finds  itself  at  fault.  The  remarkable  story  of  the  snow- 
image,  though  to  that  sagacious  class  of  people  to  whom 
good  Mr.  Lindsey  belongs  it  may  seem  but  a  childish 
affair,  is,  neyertheless,  capable  of  being  moralized  in 
various  methods,  greatly  for  tiieir  edification.     One  of 


A    CHILDISH    MIRACLE.  33 

its  lessons,  for  instance,  might  be,  that  it  beliooves  men, 
and  especially  men  of  benevolence,  to  consider  well  what 
they  are  about,  and,  before  acting  on  their  philanthropic 
purposes,  to  be  quite  sure  that  they  comprehend  the 
nature  and  all  the  relations  of  the  business  in  hand. 
What  has  been  established  as  an  element  of  good  to  one 
being  may  prove  absolute  mischief  to  another;  even  as 
the  warmth  of  tlie  parlor  was  proper  enougii  for  cliildrcn 
of  flesh  and  blood,  like  Violet  and  Peony,  —  though  by 
no  means  very  wholesome,  even  for  them,  —  but  involved 
nothing  short  of  annihilation  to  the  unfortunate  snow- 
image. 

But,  after  all,  there  is  no  teaching  anything  to  wise 
men  of  good  Mr.  Lindsey's  stamp.  They  know  every- 
thing, —  oh,  to  be  sure  !  —  everything  that  has  been,  and 
everything  that  is,  and  everything  that,  by  any  future 
possibility,  can  be.  And,  should  some  phenomenon  of 
nature  or  providence  transcend  their  system,  they  will 
not  recognize  it,  even  if  it  come  to  pass  under  their  very 
noses. 

"  Wife,"  said  Mr.  Llndsey,  after  a  fit  of  silence,  "  see 
what  a  quantity  of  snow  the  children  have  brouglit  in  on 
titeir  feet !  It  has  made  quite  a  ])uddle  here  before  tlie 
stove.  Pray  tell  Dora  to  bring  some  towels  and  sop  it 
up!" 


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THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE. 

^NE  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  going  down,  a 
mother  and  lier  little  boy  sat  at  the  door  of  their 
cottage,  talking  about  the  Great  Stone  Face, 
They  had  but  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  there  it  was  plainly 
to  be  seen,  though  miles  away,  with  the  sunshine  bright- 
ening all  its  features. 

And  what  was  the  Great  Stone  Face  ? 

Embosomed  amongst  a  family  of  lofty  mountains,  there 
was  a  valley  so  spacious  that  it  contained  many  thousand 
inhabitants.  Some  of  these  good  people  dwelt  in  log- 
huts,  with  the  black  forest  all  around  them,  on  the  steep 
and  difficult  hillsides.  Others  had  their  homes  in  com- 
fortable farm-houses,  and  cultivated  the  rich  soil  on  the 
gentle  slopes  or  level  surfaces  of  the  valley.  Others, 
again,  were  congregated  into  populous  villages,  Avhere 
some  wild,  highland  rivulet,  tumbling  down  from  its 
birthplace  in  the  upper  mountain  region,  had  been  caught 
and  tamed  by  human  cunning,  and  compelled  to  turn  the 
machinery  of  cotton-factories.  The  inhabitants  of  this 
valley,  in  short,  were  numerous,  and  of  many  modes  of  life. 
But  all  of  them,  grown  people  and  children,  had  a  kind 
of  familiarity  with  the  Great  Stone  Face,  although  some 
possessed  the  gift  of  distinguishing  this  grand  natural 
phenomenon  more  perfectly  than  many  of  their  neighbors. 


THE    GREAT    STONE    FACE.  35 

The  Great  Stone  Face,  tlien,  was  a  work  of  Nature  in 
her  mood  of  majestic  playfulness,  formed  on  the  perpen- 
dicular side  of  a  mountain  by  some  immense  rocks,  which 
liad  been  thrown  together  in  such  a  position  as,  when 
viewed  at  a  proper  distance,  precisely  to  resemble  the 
features  of  the  human  countenance.  It  seemed  as  if  an 
enormous  giant,  or  a  Titan,  had  sculptured  his  own  like- 
ness on  the  precipice.  There  was  the  broad  arch  of  the 
foreliead,  a  hundred  feet  in  height ;  the  nose,  with  its  long 
bridge ;  and  the  vast  lips,  which,  if  they  could  have  spoken, 
would  have  rolled  their  thunder  accents  from  one  end  of 
the  valley  to  the  other.  True  it  is,  that  if  the  spectator 
approached  too  near,  he  lost  the  outline  of  the  gigantic 
visage,  and  could  discern  only  a  heap  of  ponderous  and 
gigantic  rocks,  piled  in  chaotic  ruin  one  upon  another. 
Retracing  his  steps,  however,  the  wondrous  features 
would  again  be  seen ;  and  the  farther  lie  withdrew  from 
them,  the  more  like  a  human  face,  with  all  its  original 
divinity  intact,  did  they  appear ;  until,  as  it  grew  dim  in 
the  distance,  with  the  clouds  and  glorified  vapor  of  the 
mountains  clustering  about  it,  the  Great  Stone  Face 
seemed  positively  to  be  alive. 

It  was  a  happy  lot  for  children  to  grow  up  to  man- 
hood or  womanhood  with  the  Great  Stone  Face  before 
their  eyes,  for  all  the  features  were  noble,  and  the  ex- 
pression was  at  once  grand  and  sweet,  as  if  it  were  the 
glow  of  a  vast,  warm  heart,  that  embraced  all  mankind  in 
its  affections,  and  had  room  for  more.  It  was  an  education 
only  to  look  at  it.  Accoiding  to  the  belief  of  many  peo- 
ple, the  valley  owed  much  of  its  fertility  to  this  benign 
aspect  that  was  continually  beaming  over  it,  illuminat- 
ing the  clouds,  and  infusing  its  tenderness  into  the  sun- 
shine. 

As  we  began  with  saying,  a  mother  and  her  little  boy 


36  THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE. 

sat  at  their  cottage-door,  gazing  at  tlis  Great  Stone  Face, 
and  talking  about  it.     The  cliild's  name  T^as  Ernest. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  while  the  Titanic  visage  smiled  on 
him,  "  I  wish  that  it  could  speak,  for  it  looks  so  very 
kindly  that  its  voice  must  needs  be  pleasant.  If  I 
were  to  see  a  man  with  such  a  face,  I  should  love  him 
dearly." 

"  If  an  old  prophecy  should  come  to  pass,"  answered 
his  mother,  "  we  may  see  a  man,  some  time  or  other,  with 
exactly  such  a  face  as  that." 

"  What  prophecy  do  you  mean,  dear  mother  ?  "  eagerly 
inquired  Ernest.     "  Pray  tell  me  all  about  it  !  " 

So  his  mother  told. him  a  story  that  her  own  mother 
had  told  to  her,  when  she  herself  was  younger  than  little 
Ernest ;  a  story,  not  of  things  that  were  past,  but  of  what 
was  yet  to  came ;  a  story,  nevertheless,  so  very  old,  that 
even  the  Indians,  who  formerly  inhabited  this  valley,  had 
heard  it  from  their  forefathers,  to  whom,  as  they  affirmed, 
it  had  been  murmured  by  the  mountain  streams,  and 
whispered  by  the  wind  among  the  tree-tops.  The  pur- 
port was,  that,  at  some  future  day,  a  child  should  be  born 
hereabouts,  who  was  destined  to  become  the  greatest  and 
noblest  person£(ge  of  his  time,  and  whose  countenance,  in 
manhood,  should  bear  an  exact  resemblance  to  the  Great 
Stone  Face.  Not  a  few  old-fashioned  people,  and  young 
ones  likewise,  in  the  ardor  of  their  hopes,  still  cherished 
an  enduring  faith  in  this  old  prophecy.  But  others,  who 
had  seen  more  of  the  world,  had  watched  and  waited  till 
they  were  weary,  and  had  beheld  no  man  with  such  a  face, 
nor  any  man  that  proved  to  be  much  greater  or  nobler 
than  his  neighbors,  concluded  it  to  be  nothing  but  an  idle 
tale.  At  all  events,  the  great  man  of  the  propliecy  liad 
not  yet  appeared, 

"0  mother,  dear  mother!"  cried  Ernest,  clapping  his 


THE  GREAT  STONE*  FACE.         37 

hands  above  liis  head,  "  I  do  hope  that  I  sliaU  live  to  see 
him  !  " 

His  mother  was  an  affeetionate  and  tlionglitful  woman, 
and  i'elt  that  it  was  wisest  not  to  disconragc  the  generous 
liopes  of  her  httle  boy.  So  she  only  said  to  hin),  "  Per- 
haps you  may." 

And  Ernest  never  forgot  the  story  that  his  mother  told 
him.  It  was  always  in  his  mind,  whenever  he  looked 
upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  He  spent  his  childhood  in 
the  log-cottage  where  he  was  born,  and  was  dutiful  to 
his  mother,  and  helpful  to  her  in  many  things,  assisting 
her  much  with  his  little  hands,  and  more  with  his  loving 
heart.  In  this  manner,  from  a  happy  yet  often  j)ensi've 
child,  he  grew  up  to  be  a  mild,  quiet,  unobtrusive  boy, 
and  sun-browned  with  labor  in  the  fields,  but  Avith  more 
intelligence  brightening  his  aspect  than  is  seen  in  nuuiy 
lads  wjio  have  been  taught  at  famous  schools.  Yet 
Ernest  had  had  no  teacher,  save  only  that  the  Great 
Stone  Face  became  one  to  him.  Wlien  the  toil  of  the 
day  was  over,  he  would  gaze  at  it  for  hours,  until  he 
began  to  imagine  that  those  vast  features  recognized 
him,  and  gave  him  a  smile  of  kindness  and  encourage- 
ment, responsive  to  his  own  look  of  veneration.  We 
must  not  take  upon  us  to  vMnn  that  this  was  a  mistake, 
although  the  Face  may  have  looked  no  more  kindly  at 
Ernest  than  at  all  the  world  besides.  But  the  secret  was, 
that  the  boy's  tender  and  confiding  simplicity  discerned 
what  other  people  could  not  see  ;  and  thus  the  love,  which 
was  meant  for  all,  became  his  peculiar  i)ortion. 

About  this  time,  there  went  a  rumor  throughout  the 
valley,  that  the  great  man,  foretold  from  ages  long  ago, 
who  was  to  bear  a  resemblance  to  the  Great  Stone  Face, 
had  appeared  at  last.  It  seems  tliat,  many  years  before, 
a  young  man  had  migrated  from  the  valley  and  settled  at 


38  THE    OllEAT    STOXE    FACE. 

a  distant  seaport,  where,  after  getting  together  a  little 
money,  he  had  set  up  as  a  shopkeeper.  His  name  —  but 
I  could  never  learn  whether  it  was  his  real  one,  or  a 
nickname  that  had  grown  out  of  his  habits  and  success 
in  life  —  was  Gathergold.  Being  shrewd  and  active, 
and  endowed  by  Providence  with  that  inscrutable  faculty 
which  develops  itself  in  what  the  world  calls  luck,  he  be- 
came an  exceedingly  rich  merchant,  and  owner  of  a  whole 
fleet  of  bulky -bottomed  ships.  All  the  countries  of  the 
globe  appeared  to  join  hands  for  the  mere  purpose  of 
adding  heap  after  heap  to  the  mountainous  accumulation 
of  this  one  man's  wealth.  Tiie  cold  regions  of  the  north, 
almost  within  the  gloom  and  shadow  of  the  Arctic  Circle, 
sent  him  their  tribute  in  the  shape  of  furs ;  hot  Africa 
sifted  for  him  the  golden  sands  of  her  rivers,  and  gathered 
up  the  ivory  tusks  of  her  great  elephants  out  of  the  for- 
ests;  the  East  came  bringing  him  the  rich  shawls,  and 
spices,  and  teas,  and  the  elfulgance  of  diamonds,  and  the 
gleaming  purity  of  large  pearls.  The  ocean,  not  to  be 
behindhand  with  the  earth,  yielded  up  her  mighty  whales, 
that  Mr.  Gathergold  might  sell  their  oil,  and  make  a 
profit  on  it.  Be  the  original  commodity  what  it  might, 
it  was  gold  within  his  grasp.  It  might  be  said  of  him, 
as  of  Midas  in  the  fable,  that  whatever  he  touched  with 
his  finger  immediately  glistened,  and  grew  yellow,  and 
was  changed  at  once  into  sterling  metal,  or,  which  suited 
him  still  better,  into  piles  of  coin.  And,  when  Mr.  Gath- 
ergold liad  become  so  very  rich  that  it  would  have  taken 
him  a  hundred  years  only  to  count  his  wealth,  he  be- 
thought himself  of  his  native  valley,  and  resolved  to  go 
back  thither,  and  end  his  days  where  he  was  born.  "With 
this  puri)ose  in  view,  he  sent  a  skilful  architect  to  build 
liim  such  a  palace  as  should  be  fit  for  a  man  of  his  vast 
wealth  to  live  in. 


THE    GUEAT    STONE    FACE.  39 

As  I  liave  said  above,  it  liad  already  been*  niniored  in 
the  valley  that  Mr.  Galherguld  had  turned  out  to  be  the 
prophetic  [)ersonage  so  long  and  vainly  looked  for,  and 
that  his  visage  was  the  perfect  and  undeniable  similitude 
of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  People  were  the  more  ready 
to  believe  that  this  must  needs  be  the  fact,  when  they  be- 
held the  splendid  editice  that  rCse,  as  if  by  enchantment, 
on  the  site  of  his  father's  old  weather-beaten  farm-house. 
The  exterior  was  of  marble,  so  dazzlingly  white  that  it 
seemed  as  though  the  whole  structure  might  melt  away 
in  the  sunshine,  like  those  humbler  ones  which  Mr.  Gath- 
ergold,  in  his  young  play-days,  before  his  fingers  were 
gifted  with  the  touch  ^f  transmutation,  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  build  of  snow.  It  had  a  richly  ornamented 
})ortico,  supported  by  tall  pillars,  beneath  which  was  a 
lofty  door,  studded  with  silver  knobs,  and  made  of  a  kind 
of  variegated  wood  that  had  been  brought  from  beyond 
the  sea.  Tlie  windows,  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  of 
each  stately  apartment,  were  composed,  respectively,  of 
but  one  enormous  pane  of  glass,  so  transparently  ])ure 
that  it  was  said  to  be  a  finer  medium  than  even  the  va- 
cant atmosphere.  Hardly  anybody  had  been  permitted 
to  see  the  interior  of  tins  palace ;  but  it  was  reported, 
and  with  good  semblance  of  truth,  to  be  far  more  gor- 
geous than  the  outside,  insomuch  that  whatever  was  iron 
or  brass  in  other  houses  was  silver  or  gold  in  this;  and 
jMr.  Gathergold's  bedchamber,  especially,  made  such  a 
glittering  aj)pcarance  that  no  ordinary  man  would  have 
been  able  to  close  his  eyes  there.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  Mr.  Gathergold  was  now  so  inured  to  wealth,  that 
perhaps  he  could  not  have  closed  his  eyes  unless  where 
the  gleam  of  it  was  certain  to  find  its  way  beneath  his 
eyelids. 

In  due  time,  the  mansion  was  finished ;  next  came  the 


40  THE    GREAT    STONE    FACE. 

upholsterers,  witli  magnificent  furniture ;  then,  a  Avliob 
troop  of  black  and  white  servants,  the  harbingers  of  Mr. 
Gathergold,  who,  in  his  own  majestic  person,  was  ex- 
pected to  arrive  at  sunset.  Our  friend  Ernest,  mean- 
while, had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the  idea  that  the  great 
man,  the  noble  man,  the  man  of  prophecy,  after  so  many 
ages  of  delay,  was  at  length  to  be  made  manifest  to  his 
native  valley.  He  knew,  boy  as  he  was,  that  there  were 
a  thousand  ways  in  which  Mr.  Gathergold,  w^ith  his  vast 
wealth,  might  transform  himself  into  an  angel  of  benefi- 
cence, and  assume  a  control  over  human  alfciirs  as  wide 
and  benignant  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Stone  Eace. 
Eull  of  faith  and  hope,  Ernest  douljted  not  that  what  the 
people  said  was  true,  and  that  now  he  Avas  to  behold  the 
living  likeness  of  those  wondrous  features  on  the  moun- 
tain-side. While  the  boy  was  still  gazing  up  the  valley, 
and  fancying,  as  he  always  did,  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  returned  his  gaze  and  looked  kindly  at  him,  the 
rumbling  of  wheels  was  heard,  approacliing  swiftly  along 
the  winding  road. 

"  Here  he  comes  !  "  cried  a  group  of  people  who  were 
assembled  to  witness  the  arrival.  "  Here  comes  the 
great  Mr.  Gathergold  !  " 

A  carriage,  drawn  by  four  horses,  dashed  round  the 
turn  of  the  road.  Within  it,  thrust  partly  out  of  the 
window,  appeared  the  physiognomy  of  a  little  old  man, 
with  a  skin  as  yellow  as  if  his  own  Midas-hand  had 
transmuted  it.  He  had  a  low  forehead,  small,  sharp 
eyes,  puckered  about  with  innumerable  wrinkles,  and  very 
thin  lips,  which  he  made  still  thinner  by  pressing  them 
forcibly  together. 

"  The  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Eace  !  "  shouted 
the  people.  "  Sure  enough,  the  old  prophecy  is  true ; 
and  here  we  have  the  great  man  come,  at  last  I  " 


THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE.  41 

And,  wliat  grcally  perplexed  Ernest,  tliev  seemed  act- 
ually to  believe  that  here  was  the  likeness  Avhieh  they 
spoke  of.  By  tlie  roadside  there  chaneed  to  be  an  old 
beggar-woman  and  two  little  beggar-children,  stragglers 
from  some  far-off  region,  who,  as  tlie  carriage  rolled  on- 
ward, held  ont  their  hands  and  lifted  up  their  doleful 
voices,  most  piteously  beseeching  charity,  A  yellow 
claw  —  the  very  same  that  had  clawed  together  so  much 
wealth  —  poked  itself  out  of  the  coach-window,  and 
dropt  some  copper  coins  upon  the  ground  ;  so  that, 
though  the  great  man's  name  seems  to  have  been  Gath- 
ergold,  he  might  just  as  suitably  have  been  nicknamed 
Scattercopper.  Still,  nevertheless,  with  an  earnest  shout, 
and  evidently  Avith  as  much  good  faith  as  ever,  the  peo- 
ple bellowed,  — 

"  He  is  the  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face  !  " 

But  Ernest  turned  sadly  from  the  wrinkled  shrewd- 
ness of  that  sordid  visage,  and  gazed  up  the  valley, 
where,  amid  a  gathering  mist,  gilded  by  the  last  sun- 
beams, he  could  still  distinguish  those  glorious  features 
which  had  impressed  themselves  into  his  soul.  Their 
aspect  cheered  him.  What  did  the  benign  lips  seem  to 
say  ? 

"  He  will  come !  Fear  not,  Ernest ;  the  man  will 
come !  " 

The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 
lie  had  grown  to  be  a  young  man  now.  He  attracted 
little  notice  from  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  valley ;  for 
they  saw  nothing  remarkable  in  his  way  of  life,  save 
that,  when  the  labor  of  the  day  was  over,  he  still  loved 
to  go  apart  and  gaze  and  meditate  upon  the  Great  Stone 
Face.  According  to  their  idea  of  the  matter,  it  was  a 
folly,  indeed,  but  pardonable,  inasmuch  as  Ernest  was 
industrious,  kind,  and  neighborlv,  and  neglceted  no  duty 


42  THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE. 

for  the  sake  of  indulging  this  idle  hahit.  Tliey  knew  not 
tiiat  t  he  Great  Stone  Face  had  become  a  teacher  to  him, 
and  that  the  sentiment  wiiich  was  expressed  in  it  would 
enlarge  the  young  man's  heart,  and  fill  it  with  wider  and 
deeper  sympathies  than  other  hearts.  They  knew  not 
that  thence  would  come  a  better  wisdom  than  could  be 
learned  from  books,  and  a  better  life  than  could  be 
moulded  on  the  defaced  example  of  other  human  lives. 
Neither  did  Ernest  know  that  the  thoughts  and  affec- 
tions which  came  to  him  so  naturally,  in  the  fields  and 
ac  the  fireside,  and  wherever'  he  communed  with  himself, 
were  of  a  higher  tone  than  those  which  all  men  shared 
with  him.  A  simple  soul,  —  simple  as  when  his  mother 
first  taught  him  the  old  prophecy,  —  he  beheld  the  mar- 
vellous features  beaming  adown  the  valley,  and  still 
wondered  that  their  human  counterpart  was  so  long  in 
making  his  appearance. 

By  this  time  poor  Mr.  Gathergold  was  dead  and  bur- 
ied ;  and  the  oddest  part  of  the  matter  was,  that  his 
wealth,  which  was  the  body  and  spirit  of  his  existence, 
had  disappeared  before  his  death,  leaving  nothing  of  him 
but  a  living  skeleton,  covered  over  with  a  wrinkled,  yel- 
low skin.  Since  the  melting  away  of  his  gold,  it  had 
been  very  generally  conceded  that  there  was  no  such 
striking  resemblance,  after  all,  betwixt  the  ignoble  fea- 
tures of  the  ruined  merchant  and  that  majestic  face  upon 
the  mountain-side.  So  the  people  ceased  to  honor  him 
during  his  lifetime,  and  quietly  consigned  him  to  forget- 
fulness  after  his  decease.  Once  in  a  while,  it  is  true, 
his  memory  was  brought  up  in  connection  with  the  mng- 
niticent  palace  which  he  had  built,  and  which  had  long 
ago  been  turned  into  a  hotel  for  the  accommodation  of 
strangers,  multitudes  of  whom  came,  every  summer,  to 
visit  that  famous  natural  curiosity,  the  Great  Stone  Face. 


THE    GEE AT    STONE    FACE.  43 

Thus,  Mr.  Gathergold  being  discredited  and  throwTi  into 
the  shade,  the  man  of  propliecy  was  yet  to  come. 

It  so  happened  that  a  native-born  son  of  the  valley, 
many  years  before,  had  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and,  after 
a  great  deal  of  hard  figlitnig,  had  now  become  an  illus- 
trious commander.  Whatever  he  may  be  called  in  his- 
tory, he  was  known  in  camps  and  on  the  battle-field 
under  the  nickname  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder.  This 
war-worn  veteran,  being  now  infirm  with  age  and 
wounds,  and  weary  of  the  turmoil  of  a  military  life, 
and  of  the  roll  of  the  drum  and  the  clangor  of  the 
trumpet,  that  had  so  long  been  ringing  in  his  ears, 
had  lately  signified  a  purpose  of  returning  to  his  na- 
tive valley,  hoping  to  find  repose  where  he  remembered 
to  have  left  it.  The  inlial)itants,  his  old  neighbors  and 
their  grown-up  children,  were  resolved  to  welcome  the 
renowned  warrior  with  a  salute  of  cannon  and  a  public 
dinner;  and  all  the  more  enthusiastically,  it  being  af. 
firmed  that  now,  at  last,  the  likeness  of  the  Great 
Stone  Face  had  actually  appeared.  An  aid-de-camp  of 
Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  travelUng  through  the  valley, 
was  said  to  have  been  struck  with  the  resemblance. 
Moreover  the  schoolmates  and  early  acquaintances  of 
the  general  were  ready  to  testify,  on  oath,  that,  to  the 
best  of  their  recollection,  the  aforesaid  general  had  been 
exceedingly  like  the  majestic  image,  even  when  a  boy, 
only  that  the  idea  had  never  occurred  to  them  at  that 
period.  Great,  therefore,  was  the  excitement  through- 
out the  valley ;  and  many  people,  who  had  never  once 
thought  of  glancing  at  the  Great  Stone  Face  for  years 
before,  now  spent  their  time  in  gazing  at  it,  for  the  sake 
of  knowing  exactly  how  General  Blood-and-Thunder 
looked. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Ernest,  with  all  the 


44  THE    GREAT    STONE    FACE. 

other  people  of  the  valley,  left  their  work,  and  proceeded 
to   the   spot  where  the  sylvan   banquet  was    prepared. 
As   he   approachsd,   the  loud  voice   of  the    Rev.    Dr. 
Battleblast  was  heard,  beseeching  a  blessing  on  the  good 
things  set  before  them,  and  on  the  distinguished  friend 
of  peace   in  whose   honor   they  were  assembled.     Tlie 
tables  were  arranged  in  a  cleared  s])ace  of  the  woods, 
shut  in  by  the  surrounding  trees,  except  where  a  vista 
opened   eastward,   and    afforded  a   distant  view  of  the 
Great    Stone   Face.      Over   the    general's   chair,    wliicli 
was  a  relic  from  the  home  of  Washington,  there  was 
an  arch   of  verdant  boughs,   with  the  laurel  profusely 
intermixed,   and  surmounted   by  his  country's   banner, 
beneath  which  he  had  won  his  victories.     Our  friend 
Ernest  raised  himself  on  his  tiptoes,  in  hopes  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  celebrated  guest ;  but  there  was  a  mighty 
crowd  about  the  tables  anxious  to  hear  the  toasts  and 
speeches,  and  to  catch  any  word  that  might  fall  from  the 
general  in  reply  ;  and  a  volunteer  company,  doing  duty 
as  a  guard,  pricked  ruthlessly  with  their  bayonets  at  any 
particularly  quiet  person  among  the  throng.     So  Ernest, 
being  of  an  unobtrusive  character,  was  thrust  quite  into 
the   background,   where  he  could  see  no   more  of  Old 
Blood-and-Thunder's  physiognomy  than  if  it   had  been 
still  blazing  on  the  battle-field.     To  console  himself,  he 
turned   towards   the    Great    Stone   Eace,  which,  like  a 
faithful  and  long-remembered  friend,  looked  back  and 
smiled  upon  him  through  the  vista  of  the  forest.     Mean- 
time, however,  he  could  overhear  the  remarks  of  various 
individuals,  who  were  comparing  the  features  of  the  hero 
with  the  face  on  the  distant  mountain-side. 

'"Tis  the   same  face,   to   a   hair!"  cried   one   man, 
cutting  a  caper  for  joy. 

"  Wonderfully  like,  that 's  a  fact !  "  responded  another. 


THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE.  45 

"  Like  !  why,  I  call  it  Old  Blood-aiid-Tliunder  liim- 
self,  ill  a  monstrous  looking-glass  ! "  cried  a  third. 
"And  why  not?  He's  the  greatest  man  of  this  or  any 
other  age,  beyond  a  doubt." 

And  then  all  three  of  the  speakers  gave  a  great  shout, 
which  communicated  electricity  to  the  crowd,  and  called 
forth  a  roar  from  a  thousand  voices,  that  went  reverber- 
ating for  miles  among  the  mountains,  until  you  might 
have  supposed  that  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  poured  its 
thunder-breath  into  the  cry.  All  these  comments,  and 
this  vast  enthusiasm,  served  the  more  to  interest  our 
friend ;  nor  did  he  think  of  questioning  that  now,  at 
length,  the  mountain-visage  had  found  its  human  coun- 
terpart. It  is  true,  Ernest  had  imagined  that  this  long- 
looked-for  personage  would  appear  in  the  character  of 
a  man  of  peace,  uttering  wisdom,  and  doing  good,  and 
making  people  happy.  But,  taking  an  habitual  breadth 
of  view,  with  all  his  simplicity,  he  contended  that  Provi- 
dence should  choose  its  own  method  of  blessing  man- 
kind, and  could  conceive  that  this  great  end  might  be 
effected  even  by  a  warrior  and  a  bloody  sword,  should 
inscrutable  wisdom  see  fit  to  order  matters  so. 

"  The  general  !  the  general !  "  was  now  the  cry. 
"Hush!  silence!  Old  Blood-and-Thunder 's  going  to 
make  a  speech." 

Even  so  ;  for,  the  cloth  being  removed,  the  general's 
health  had  been  drunk  amid  shouts  of  applause,  and  he 
now  stood  upon  his  feet  to  thank  the  company.  Ernest 
saw  him.  There  he  was,  over  the  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
from  the  two  glittering  epaulets  and  embroidered  col- 
lar upward,  beneath  the  arch  of  green  boughs  with  in- 
tertwined laurel,  and  the  banner  drooping  as  if  to  shade 
his  brow  !  And  there,  too,  visible  in  the  same  glance, 
through  the  vista  of  the  forest,  appeared  the  Great  Stone 


46  THE    GREAT    STONE    FACE. 

Face !  And  was  there,  indeed,  such  a  resemblance  as 
the  crowd  had  testified  ?  Alas,  Ernest  could  not  recog- 
nize it !  He  beheld  a  war-worn  and  weather-beaten 
countenance,  full  of  energy,  and  expressive  of  an  iron 
will;  but  the  gentle  wisdom,  the  deep,  broad,  tender 
sympathies,  were  altogether  wanting  in  Old  Blood-and- 
TJiunder's  visage ;  and  even  if  the  G:eat  Stone  Face  had 
assumed  his  look  of  stern  command,  the  milder  traits 
would  still  have  tempered  it. 

"  This  is  not  the  man  of  prophecy,"  sighed  Ernest,  to 
himself,  as  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  throng.  "  And 
•must  the  world  wait  longer  yet  ?  " 

The  mists  had  congregated  about  the  distant  moun- 
tain-side,  and  there  were  seen  the  grand  and  awful 
features  of  the  Great  Stone  Face,  awful  but  benignant, 
as  if  a  mighty  angel  were  sitting  among  the  hills,  and 
enrobing  himself  in  a  cloud-vesture  of  gold  and  purple. 
As  he  looked,  Ernest  could  hardly  beUeve  but  that  a 
smile  beamed  over  the  whole  visage,  with  a  radiance 
still  brightening,  although  without  motion  of  the  lips. 
It  was  probably  the  effect  of  the  western  sunshine,  melt- 
ing through  the  thinly  diffused  vapors  that  had  swept 
between  him  and  the  object  that  he  gazed  at.  But  — 
as  it  always  did  —  the  aspect  of  his  marvellous  friend 
made  Ernest  as  hopeful  as  if  he  had  never  hoped  in 
vain. 

"Fear  not,  Ernest,"  said  his  heart,  even  as  if  the 
Great  Face  were  whispering  him,  —  "  fear  not,  Ernest ; 
he  will  come." 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly  away.  Ernest 
still  dwelt  in  his  native  valley,  and  was  now  a  man  of 
middle  age.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  he  had  become 
known  among  the  people.  Now,  as  heretofore,  he  la- 
bored for  his  broad,  and  was  the   same    simple-hearted 


THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE.  47 

man  tliat  lie  liad  always  been.  But  he  had  thought  and 
felt  so  much,  he  had  given  so  many  of  the  best  hours  of 
his  life  to  unworldly  hopes  for  some  great  good  to  man- 
kind, that  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  been  talking  wilh 
the  angels,  and  had  imbibed  a  portion  of  their  wisdom 
unawares.  It  was  visible  in  the  calm  and  well-consid- 
ered beneficence  of  his  daily  life,  the  quiet  stream  of 
which  had  made  a  wide  green  margin  all  along  its 
course.  Not  a  day  passed  by,  that  the  world  was  not 
the  better  because  this  man,  humble  as  he  was,  had 
lived.  He  never  stepped  aside  from  his  own  path,  yet 
would  ahvays  reach  a  blessing  to  his  neighbor.  Almost 
involuntarily,  too,  he  had  become  a  preacher.  The  pure 
and  high  simplicity  of  his  thought,  which,  as  one 'of 
its  manifestations,  took  shape  in  the  good  deeds  that 
dropped  silently  from  his  hand,  flowed  also  forth  in 
speech.  He  uttered  truths  that  w^rought  upon  and 
moulded  the  lives  of  those  who  heard  him.  His  audi- 
tors, it  may  be,  never  suspected  that  Ernest,  their  own 
neighbor  and  familiar  friend,  w^as  more  than  an  ordinary 
man ;  least  of  all  did  Ernest  himself  suspect  it ;  but,  in- 
evitably as  the  murmur  of  a  rivulet,  came  thoughts  out 
of  his  mouth  that  no  other  human  lips  had  spoken. 

When  the  people's  minds  had  had  a  little  time  to  cool, 
they  w^ere  ready  enough  to  acknowledge  their  mistake  in 
imagining  a  similarity  between  General  Blood-and-Thuu- 
der's  truculent  physiognomy  and  the  benign  visage  on 
the  mountain-side.  But  now,  again,  there  were  reports 
and  many  paragraphs  in  the  newspapers,  affirming  that 
the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Eace  had  appeared  upon 
the  broad  shoulders  of  a  certain  eminent  statesman.  He, 
like  Mr.  Gathergold  and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  was  a 
iKitive  of  the  valley,  but  had  left  it  in  liis  early  days, 
and  taken  up  the  trades  of  law  and  politics.     Instead  of 


48  THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE. 

tlie  ricli  man's  MTnltli  and  tlis  warrior's  sword,  lie  had 
l)ut  a  tongue,  and  it  was  mightier  than  both  together. 
So  wonderfully  eloquent  was  he,  that  whatever  he  might 
choose  to  say,  his  auditors  had  no  choice  but  to  believe 
him  ;  wrong  looked  like  riglit,  and  right  like  wrong ; 
for  when  it  pleased  him,  he  could  make  a  kind  of  illu- 
minated fog  with  his  mere  breath,  and  obscure  the  nat- 
ural daylight  with  it.  His  tongue,  indeed,  was  a  magic 
instrument :  sometimes  it  rumbled  like  the  thunder ; 
sometimes  it  warbled  like  the  sweetest  music.  It  was 
the  blast  of  war,  —  the  song  of  peace  ;  and  it  seemed  to 
have  a  heart  in  it,  when  there  was  no  such  matter.  In 
good  truth,  he  was  a  wondrous  man ;  and  when  his 
tongue  had  acquired  him  all  other  imaginable   success, 

—  when  it  had  been  heard  in  halls  of  state,  and  in  the 
courts  of  princes  and  potentates,  —  after  it  had  made 
him  known  all  over  the  world,  even  as  a  voice  crying 
from  shore  to  shore, — it  finally  persuaded  his  country- 
men to  select  him  for  the  Presidency.     Before  this  time, 

—  indeed,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  grow  celebrated,  — 
his  admirers  had  found  out  the  resemblance  between  him 
and  the  Great  Stone  Face  ;  and  so  much  were  they 
struck  by  it,  that  throughout  the  country  this  distin- 
guished gentleman  was  known  by  the  name  of  Old 
Stony  Phiz.  The  phrase  was  considered  as  giving  a 
highly  favorable  aspect  to  his  political  prospects  ;  for, 
as  is  likewise  the  case  with  the  Popedom,  nobody  ever 
becomes  President  without  taking  a  name  other  than  his 
own. 

While  his  friends  were  doing  their  best  to  make  him 
President,  Old  Stony  Phiz,  as  he  was  called,  set  out  on  a 
visit  to  the  valley  where  he  was  born.  Of  coui*se,  he  had 
no  other  object  that  to  shake  hands  with  his  fellow-citi- 
zens, and  neither  thought  nor  cared  about  anv  effect 


THE    GllEAT    STONE    FACE.  49 

wliicli  his' progress  tlirougli  the  country  might  have  upon 
the  election.  Magnificent  preparations  were  made  to 
receive  the  illustrious  statesman ;  a  cavalcade  of  horse- 
men set  forth  to  meet  him  at  the  boundary  line  of  the 
State,  and  all  the  people  left  their  business  and  gatliered 
along  the  wayside  to  see  him  pass.  Among  tliese  was 
Ernest.  Though  more  than  once  disappointed,  as  we 
have  seen,  he  had  such  a  hopeful  and  confiding  nature, 
that  he  was  always  ready  to  believe  in  whatever  seemed 
beautiful  and  good.  He  kept  his  heart  continually  open, 
and  thus  was  sure  to  catch  the  -blessing  from  on  liigh, 
wdien  it  should  come.  So  now  again,  as  buoyantly  as 
ever,  he  went  forth  to  behold  the  likeness  of  the  Great 
Stone  Face. 

The  cavalcade  came  prancing  along  the  road,  with  a 
great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  mighty  cloud  of  dust, 
which  rose  up  so  dense  and  high  that  the  visage  of  the 
mountain-side  was  completely  hidden  from  Ernest's  eyes. 
All  the  great  men  of  the  neighborhood  were  there  on 
horseback :  militia  officers,  in  uniform ;  the  member  of 
Congress  ;  the  shonfT  of  the  county ;  the  editors  of  news- 
papers ;  and  many  a  farmer,  too,  had  mounted  his  pa- 
tient steed,  with  his  Sunday  coat  upon  his  back.  It 
really  was  a  very  brilliant  spectacle,  especially  as  tliere 
were  numerous  banners  flaunting  over  the  cavalcade,  on 
some  of  which  were  gorgeous  portraits  of  the  iUuslrious 
statesman  and  the  Great  Stone  Face,  smiling  familiarly 
at  one  another,  like  two  brothers.  If  the  pictures  were 
to  be  trusted,  the  nnitual  resemblance,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, was  marvellous.  "We  must  not  forget  to  mem- 
tion  that  there  was  a  band  of  music,  which  made  tlie 
echoes  of  the  mountains  ring  and  reverberate  with  the 
loud  triumph  of  its  strains  ;  so  that  airy  and  soul-thrilling 
melodies  broke  out  among  all  the  heights  and  hollows, 
3  "  D 


50  THE    GHEAT    STONE    FACE. 

as  if  every  nook  of  liis  native  valley  Lad  found  a  voice, 
to  welcome  the  distiugaished  guest.  But  the  grandest 
effect  was  when  the  far-off  mountain  precipice  flung 
back  the  music ;  for  then  the  Great  Stone  Face  itself 
seemed  to  be  swelling  the  triumphant  chorus,  in  ac- 
knowledgment that,  at  length,  the  man  of  prophecy  was 
come. 

All  this  while  the  people  were  throwing  up  their  hats 
and  shouting,  with  enthusiasm  so  contagious  that  the 
heart  of  Ernest  kindled  up,  and  he  likewise  threw  up 
liis  hat,  and  shouted,  as  loudly  as  the  loudest,  "  Huzza 
for  the  great  man  !  Huzza  for  Old  Stony  Phiz  ?  "  But 
as  yet  he  had  not  seen  him. 

"  Here  he  is,  now !  "  cried  those  who  stood  near  Er- 
nest. "  There  !  There  !  Look  at  Old  Stony  Phiz  and 
then  at  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  and  see  if  they 
are  not  as  like  as  two  twin-brothers  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  gallant  array,  came  an  open 
barouche,  drawn  by  four  white  horses ;  and  in  the  ba- 
rouche, with  his  massive  head  uncovered,  sat  the  illus- 
trious statesman.  Old  Stony  Phiz  himself. 

"  Confess  it,"  said  one  of  Ernest's  neighbors  to  him, 
"  the  Great  Stone  Face  has  met  its  match  at  last !  " 

Now,  it  must  be  owned  that,  at  his  first  glimpse  of  the 
countenance  which  was  bowing  and  smiling  from  the 
barouche,  Ernest  did  fancy  that  there  was  a  resemblance 
between  it  and  the  old  familiar  face  upon  the  mountain- 
side. Tlie  brow,  with  its  massive  depth  and  loftiness, 
and  all  the  other  features,  indeed,  were  boldly  and  strong- 
ly hewn,  as  if  in  emulation  of  a  more  than  heroic,  of  a 
Titanic  model.  But  the  sublimity  and  stateliness,  the 
grand  expression  of  a  divine  sympathy,  that  illuminated 
the  mountain  visage,  and  etherealizjd  its  ponderous 
granite  substance  into  spirit,  might  here  be  sought  iu 


THE    GHEAT    STOXE    FACE.  51 

vain.  Something  had  been  originally  left  out,  or  had 
departed.  And  therefore  the  marvellously  gifted  states- 
man had  always  a  weary  gloom  in  the  deep  caverns  of 
his  eyes,  as  of  a  child  that  has  outgrown  its  playthings, 
or  a  man  of  mighty  faculties  and  little  aims,  whose  life, 
with  all  its  high  performances,  was  vague  and  empty, 
because  no  high  purpose  had  endowed  it  with  reality. 

Still,  Ernest's  neighbor  was  thrusting  his  elbow  into 
his  side,  and  pressing  him  for  an  answer. 

"Confess!  confess!  Is  not  he  the  very  picture  of  your 
Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  ?  " 

"No!"  said  Ernest,  bluntly,  "I  see  little  or  no  like- 
ness." 

"Then  so  much  the  w^orse  for  the  Great  Stone  Eace  !  " 
answered  his  neighbor;  and  again  he  set  up  a  shout  for 
Old  Stony  Phiz. 

But  Ernest  turned  away,  melancholy,  and  almost 
despondent :  for  this  was  the  saddest  of  his  disappoint- 
ments, to  behold  a  man  who  might  have  fulfilled  the 
prophecy,  and  had  not  willed  to  do  so.  Meantime,  the 
cavalcade,  the  banners,  the  music,  and  the  barouches 
swept  past  him,  with  the  vociferous  crowd  in  the  rear, 
leaving  the  dust  to  settle  down,  and  the  Great  Stone 
Face  to  be  revealed  again,  Avith  the  grandeur  that  it  had 
worn  for  untold  centuries. 

"  Lo,  here  I  am,  Ernest !  "  the  benign  lips  seemed  to 
say.  "I  have  waited  longer  than  thou,  and  am  not  yet 
weary.     Fear  not ;  the  man  will  come." 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in  their  haste  on 
one  another's  heels.  And  now  they  began  to  bring  white 
hairs,  and  scatter  them  over  the  head  of  Ernest ;  they 
made  reverend  wrinkles  across  his  forehead,  and  furrows 
in  his  checks.  He  was  an  aged  man.  But  not  in  vain 
had  he  grown  old :  more  than  the  white  hairs  on  his  head 


52  THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE. 

■were  tli3  sage  thoughts  in  his  mind ;  his  wrinkles  and 
furrows  were  inscriptions  that  Time  had  graved,  and  in 
which  lie  had  written  legends  of  wisdom  that  had  been 
tested  by  the  tenor  of  a  life.  And  Ernest  had  ceased  to 
be  obscure.  Unsought  for,  undesired,  had  come  the  fame 
which  so  many  seek,  and  made  him  known  in  the  great 
world,  beyond  the  limits  of  the  valley  in  which  he  had 
dwelt  so  quietly.  College  professors,  and  even  the  active 
men  of  cities,  came  from  far  to  see  and  converse  with 
Ernest ;  for  the  report  had  gone  abroad  that  this  simple 
husbandman  had  ideas  unlike  those  of  other  men,  not 
gained  from  books,  but  of  a  higher  tone,  —  a  tranquil 
and  familiar  majesty,  as  if  he  had  been  talking  with  the 
angels  as  his  daily  friends.  Whether  it  were  sage, 
statesman,  or  philanthropist,  Ernest  received  these  visit- 
ors with  the  gentle  sincerity  that  had  characterized  hira 
from  boyhood,  and  spoke  freely  with  them  of  whatever 
came  uppermost,  or  lay  deepest  in  his  heart  or  their  own. 
While  they  talked  together,  his  face  would  kindle,  un- 
awares, and  shine  upon  them,  as  with  a  mild  evening 
light.  Pensive  with  the  fulness  of  such  discourse,  his 
guests  took  leave  and  went  their  way ;  and  passing  up 
the  valley,  paused  to  look  at  the  Great  Stone  Eace,  im- 
agining that  they  had  seen  its  likeness  in  a  human  coun- 
tenance, but  could  not  remember  where. 

While  Ernest  had  been  growing  up  and  growing  old, 
a  bountiful  Providence  had  granted  a  new  poet  to  this 
earth.  He,  likewise,  was  a  native  of  the  valley,  but  had 
spent  the  greater  part  of  liis  life  at  a  distance  from  that 
romantic  region,  pouring  out  his  sweet  music  amid  the 
bustle  and  din  of  cities.  Often,  however,  did  the  moun- 
tains Avhich  had  been  familiar  to  him  in  liis  childhood 
•lift  their  snowy  peaks  into  the  clear  atmosphere  of  liis 
poetry.     Neither  was   the  Great  Stone  Eacs  forgotten, 


THE    GREAT    STONE    FACE.  53 

for  the  poet  had  celebrated  it  in  an  ode,  w'hieh  was  grand 
enough  to  have  been  uttered  by  its  own  majestic  hps. 
This  man  of  genius,  we  may  say,  had  come  down  from 
heaven  with  wonderful  endowments.  If  he  sang  of  a 
mountain,  the  eyes  of  all  mankind  beheld  a  mightier 
grandeur  reposing  on  its  breast,  or  soaring  to  its  summit, 
than  had  before  been  seen  there.  If  his  theme  were  a 
lovely  lake,  a  celestial  smile  had  now  been  thrown  over 
it,  to  gleam  forever  on  its  surface.  If  it  were  the  vast 
old  sea,  even  the  deep  immensity  of  its  dread  bosom 
seemed  to  swell  tlie  higher,  as  if  moved  by  the  emotions 
of  the  song.  Thus  the  world  assumed  another  and  a 
better  aspect  from  the  hour  that  the  poet  blessed  it  with 
his  happy  eyes.  The  Creator  had  bestowed  him,  as  the 
last  best  touch  to  his  own  handiwork.  Creation  was 
not  finished  till  the  poet  came  to  interpret,  and  so  com- 
plete it. 

The  effect  was  no  less  high  and  beautiful,  when  his 
human  brethren  were  the  subject  of  liis  verse.  The  man 
or  woman,  sordid  with  the  common  dust  of  life,  who 
crossed  his  daily  path,  and  the  little  cliild  who  played  in 
it,  were  glorified  if  he  beheld  them  in  his  mood  of  poetic 
faith.  He  showed  the  golden  links  of  the  great  chain 
that  intertwined  them  with  an  augclic  kindred  ;  he 
brought  out  tlie  hidden  traits  of  a  celestial  birth  that 
made  them  wortliy  of  such  kin.  Some,  indeed,  there 
were,  who  thought  to  show  the  soundness  of  their  judg- 
ment by  affirming  that  all  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the 
natural  world  existed  only  in  the  poet's  fancy.  Let  such 
men  speak  for  themselves,  who  undoubtedly  appear  to 
have  been  spawned  forth  by  Nature  Avith  a  contemptuous 
bitterness  ;  she  having  plastered  them  up  out  of  her 
refuse  stuff,  after  all  the  swine  were  made.  As  respects 
all  things  else,  the  poet's  ideal  was  the  truest  truth. 


5tt  THE    GREAT    STONE    FACE. 

The  songs  of  tins  poet  found  their  way  to  Ernest.  He 
read  tlieni  after  his  customary  toil,  seated  on  the  bench 
before  his  cottage-door,  where  for  such  a  length  of  time 
he  had  filled  his  repose  with  thought,  by  gaznig  at  the 
Great  Stone  Face.  And  now  as  he  read  stanzas  that 
caused  the  soul  to  thrill  within  him,  he  lifted  his  eyes 
to  the  vast  countenanc3  beaming  on  him  so  benignantly. 

"O  majestic  friend,"  he  murmured,  addressing  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  "  is  not  this  man  worthy  to  resemble 
thee  ?  " 

The  Face  seemed  to  smile,  but  answered  not  a  word. 

'Sow  it  happened  that  the  poet,  though  he  dwelt  so 
far  away,  had  not  only  heard  of  Ernest,  but  had  medi- 
tated much  upon  his  character,  until  he  deemed  nothing 
so  desirable  as  to  meet  this  man,  whose  untaught  wis- 
dom walked  hand  in  hand  with  the  noble  simpLcity  of 
his  life.  One  suunner  morning,  therefore,  he  took  pas- 
sage by  the  railroad,  and,  in  the  decline  of  the  afternoon, 
alighted  from  the  cars  at  no  great  distance  from  Ernest's 
cottage.  The  great  hotel,  which  had  formerly  been  the 
palace  of  Mr.  Gathergold,  was  close  at  hand,  but  the  poet, 
with  his  carpat-bag  on  his  arm,  inquired  at  once  where 
Ernest  dwelt,  and  was  resolved  to  be  accepted  as  his 
guest. 

Approaching  the  door,  he  there  found  the  good  old 
man,  holding  a  volume  in  his  hand,  which  alternately  he 
read,  and  then,  with  a  finger  betv.een  the  leaves,  looked 
lovingly  at  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  the  poet.  "  Can  you  give  a 
traveller  a  night's  lodging  ?  " 

"  Willingly,"  answered  Ernest ;  and  then  he  added, 
smiling,  "  Methinks  I  never  saw  the  Great  Stone  Face 
look  so  hospitably  at  a  stranger." 

The  poet  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  and  he 


THE    GREAT    STONE    FACE.  00 

and  Ernest'  talked  together.  OHeii  liad  the  poet  held 
intercourse  with  the  wittiest  and  the  wisest,  but  never 
before  with  a  man  like  Ernest,  whose  tlioug-Jits  and  feel- 
ings gushed  up  with  such  a  natural  freedom,  and  who 
made  great  truths  so  familiar  by  his  simple  utterance  of 
them.  Angels,  as  had  been  so  often  said,  seemed  to 
have  wrouglit  with  him  at  his  labor  in  the  fields  ;  angels 
seemed  to  have  sat  with  him  by  the  fireside;  and,  dwell- 
ing Avith  angels  as  friend  with  friends,  he  had  imbibed 
the  subHmity  of  their  ideas,  and  imbued  it  with  the  sweet 
and  lowly  charm  of  household  words.  So  thought  the 
poet.  And  Ernest,  on  the  other  hand,  was  moved  and 
agitated  by  the  living  images  which  the  poet  flung  out 
of  his  mind,  and  which  peopled  all  the  air  about  the 
cottage-door  with  shapes  of  beauty,  both  gay  and  pensive. 
The  sympathies  of  these  two  men  instructed  them  with 
a  profounder  sense  than  either  could  have  attained  alone. 
Their  minds  accorded  into  one  strain,  and  made  delight- 
ful music  which  neither  of  them  could  have  claimed  as  all 
his  own,  nor  distinguished  his  own  share  from  the  other's. 
They  led  one  another,  as  it  were,  into  a  high  pavilion  of 
their  thoughts,  so  remote,  and  hitherto  so  dim,  that  they 
had  never  entered  it  before,  and  so  beautiful  that  they 
desired  to  be  there  always. 

As  Ernest  listened  to  the  poet,  he  imagined  that  tlie 
Great  Stone  Eace  was  bending  forward  to  listen  too.  lie 
gazed  earnestly  into  the  poet's  glowing  c^^es. 

"Who  are  you,  my  strangely  gifted  guest?"  he 
said. 

The  poet  laid  his  finger  on  the  volume  that  Ernest 
Lad  been  reading. 

"  You  have  read  these  poems,"  said  he.  "  You  know 
me,  then,  — for  I  wrote  them." 

Again,  and  still  more    earnestlv    than  before,  Ernest 


56  THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE. 

examined  the  poet's  features ;  then  turned  towards  the 
Great  Stone  Face  ;  then  back,  witli  an  uncertahi  aspect, 
to  his  guest.  But  his  countenance  fell;  he  shook  his 
head,  and  sighed. 

"  Wiierefore  are  you  sad  ?  "  inquired  the  poet. 

"  Because,"  replied  Ernest,  "  all  through  life  I  have 
awaited  the  fulfilment  of  a  prophecy  ;  and,  when  I  read 
these  poems,  I  hoped  that  it  miglit  be  fulfilled  in  you." 

"  You  hoped,"  auswered  th3  ])oet,  faintly  smiling,  "  to 
fiud  in  me  the  likeness  of  the  Gi-eat  Stone  Face.  And 
you  are  disappointed,  as  formerly  with  Mr.  Gat  hergold, 
aud  Old  Blood-aud-Tliunder,  and  Old  Stony  Phiz.  Yes, 
Ernest,  it  is.  my  doom.  You  must  add  my  name  to  the 
illustrious  three,  aud  record  another  failure  of  your 
hopes.  For  —  in  shame  and  sadness  do  I  speak  it,  Er- 
nest —  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  typified  by  yonder  benign 
and  majestic  image." 

"  Aud  why  ?  "  asked  Ernest.  He  pointed  to  the  vol- 
ume.    "  Are  not  those  thoughts  divine  ?  " 

"  They  have  a  strain  of  the  Divinity,"  replied  the 
poet.  "  You  can  hear  in  them  the  far-off  echo  of  a  heav- 
enly song.  But  my  life,  dear  Ernest,  has  not  corre- 
sponded with  my  thought.  I  have  had  graud  dreams, 
but  they  have  been  only  dreams,  because  I  have  lived 
—  and  that,  too,  by  my  own  choice  —  among  poor  and 
mean  realities.  Sometimes  eveu  —  shall  I  dare  to  say 
it  ?  —  I  lack  faith  in  the  grandeur,  the  beauty,  and  the 
goodness,  which  my  own  works  are  said  to  have  made 
more  evident  in  nature  and  in  human  life.  Why,  then, 
pure  seeker  of  the  good  and  true,  shouldst  thou  hope  to 
fiud  uie,  in  yonder  image  of  the  diviue  ?  " 

The  poet  spoke  sadly,  aud  his  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears.     So,  likewise,  were  those  of  Ernest. 

At  the  hour  of  suuset,  as  had  long  been  his  frequent 


THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE.  57 

custom,  Enrcst  M'as  to  discourse  to  an  assemblage  of  ihe 
iiKiprhboriug  iuluibitants  iu  tlic  open  air.  He  and  tlie 
])oet,  arm  in  arm,  still  talking  together  as  they  went 
along,  proceeded  to  the  spot.  It  Avas  a  small  nook  among 
the  hills,  with  a  gray  precipice  behind,  the  stern  front 
of  which  was  relieved  by  the  pleasant  foliage  of  many 
creeping  plants,  that  made  a  tapestry  for  the  naked 
rock,  by  hanging  their  festoons  from  all  its  rugged 
angles.  At  a  small  elevation  above  the  ground,  set  in 
a  rich  framework  of  verdure,  there  appeared  a  niche, 
spacious  enough  to  admit  a  human  figure,  with  freedom 
for  such  gestures  as  spontaneously  accompany  earnest 
thought  and  genuine  emotion.  Into  this  natural  pulpit 
Ernest  ascended,  and  threw  a  look  of  familiar  kindness 
around  upon  his  audience.  They  stood,  or  sat,  or  re- 
clined upon  the  grass,  as  seemed  good  to  each,  with  the 
departing  sunshine  falling  obliquely  over  them,  and 
mingling  its  subdued  cheerfulness  with  the  solemnity  of 
a  grove  of  ancient  trees,  beneath  and  amid  the  boughs 
of  which  the  golden  rays  were  constrained  to  pass.  In 
another  direction  was  seen  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with 
the  same  cheer,  combined  with  the  same  solemnity,  iu 
its  benignant  aspect, 

Ernest  began  to  speak,  giving  to  the  people  of  what 
was  in  his  heart  and  mind.  Ilis  words  had  power,  be- 
cause they  accorded  with  his  thoughts;  and  his  thoughts 
had  reality  and  depth,  because  they  harmonized  with  the 
life  which  he  had  always  lived.  It  was  not  mere  breath 
that  this  preacher  uttered  ;  they  were  the  words  of  life, 
because  a  life  of  good  deeds  and  holy  love  was  melted 
into  them.  Pearls,  pure  and  rich,  had  been  dissolved 
into  this  precious  draught.  The  poet,  as  he  listened, 
felt  that  the  being  and  character  of  Ernest  were  a  nobler 

strain  of  poetry  than  he  had  ever   written.     His  eyes 
■  3* 


58  THE    GREAT    STOXE    FACE. 

glistening  v\^ith  tears,  he  gazed  reverentially  at  the  vener- 
able man,  and  said  within  himself  that  never  was  there 
an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a  propliet  and  a  sage  as  that 
mild,  sweet,  thoughtful  countenance,  with  the  glory  of 
white  hair  diifused  about  it.  At  a  distance,  but  dis- 
tinctly to  be  seen,  high  up  in  the  golden  light  of  the 
setting  sun,  appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with  hoary 
mists  around  it,  like  the  white  hairs  around  the  brow  of 
Ernest.  Its  look  of  grand  beneficence  seemed  to  eui- 
brace  the  world. 

At  that  moment,  in  sympathy  with  a  thought  whicii 
he  was  about  to  utter,  the  face  of  Ernest  assumed  a 
grandeur  of  expression,  sj  imbued  with  benevolence,  that 
the  poet,  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  threw  his  arms  aloft, 
and  shouted,  — 

"  Behold  !  Behold  !  Ernest  is  himself  the  likeness  of 
the  Great  Stone  Eace  !  " 

Then  all  tlie  people  looked,  and  saw  that  what  the  deep- 
sighted  poet  said  was  true.  The  prophecy  was  fultilled. 
But  Ernest,  having  finished  what  he  had  to  say,  took 
the  poet's  arm,  and  walked  slowly  homeward,  still  hoping 
that  some  wiser  and  better  man  than  himself  w^ould  by 
and  by  appear,  bearing  a  resemblance  to  the  Gkeat 
Sto::e  Eace. 


rf>>' 


I 


MAIN  STREET. 


1 


RESPECTABLE-LOOKING  indi\  iduul  makes 
his  bow  and  addresses  the  public,  hi  my  daily- 
walks  along  the  ])rincipal  street  of  my  native 
town,  It  has  often  occurred  to  me,  that,  if  its  growth 
from  infancy  upward,  and  the  vicissitude  of  characteristic 
scenes  that  liave  passed  along  this  thoroughfare  duruig 
the  more  than  two  centuries  of  its  existence,  could  be 
presented  to  the  eye  in  a  shifting  panorama^  it>  would  be 
an  exceedingly  effective  method  of  illustrating  the  marcli 
of  time.  Acting  on  this  idea,  I  have  contrived  a  certain 
pictorial  exhibition,  somewhat  in  the  nature  of  a  puppet- 
show^,  by  means  of  which  I  propose  to  call  up  the  multi- 
form and  many-colored  Past  l)efore  the  spectator,  and 
show  him  the  ghosts  of  his  forefathers,  amid  a  succession 
of  historic  incidents,  with  no  greater  trouble  than  the 
turning  of  a  crank.  Be  pleased,  therefore,  my  indulgent 
patrons,  to  walk  into  the  show-room,  and  take  your  seats 
before  yonder  mysterious  curtain.  The  little  wheels  and 
springs  of  my  machinery  have  been  well  oiled;  a  multi- 
tude of  puppets  are  dressed  in  character,  representing  all 
varieties  of  fashion,  from  the  Puritan  cloak  and  jerkin  to 
the  latest  Oak  Hall  coat  ;  the  lamps  are  trimmed,  and 
shall  brighten  into  noontide  sunshine,  or  fade  away  in 
moonlight,  or  mullle  their  brilliancy  in  a  November  cloud, 


60  MAIN    STREET. 

as  the  nature  of  the  scene  may  require;  and,  in  short, 
the  exhibition  is  just  ready  to  coninieuce.  Unless  some- 
tliing  should  go  wrong,  — as,  for  instance,  the  misplacing 
of  a  picture,  whereby  the  people  and  events  of  one  cen- 
tury might  be  thrust  into  the  middle  of  another;  or  the 
breaking  of  a  wire,  which  would  bring  the  course  of 
time  to  a  sudden  period,  —  barring,  I  say,  the  casualties 
to  which  such  a  complicated  piece  of  mechanism  is  lia- 
ble, —  I  flatter  myself,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  the 
])erformance  will  elicit  your  generous  approbation. 

Ting-a-ting-ting!  goes  the  bell;  the  curtain  rises;  and 
we  behold  —  not,  indeed,  the  Main  Street  —  but  tlie  track 
of  leaf-strewn  forest-laud  over  which  its  dusty  pavement 
is  hereafter  to  extend. 

You  perceive,  at  a  glance,  that  this  is  the  ancient  and 
primitive  wood, — the  ever-youthful  and  venerably  old, 
—  verdant  with  new  twigs,  yet  hoary,  as  it  were,  with 
the  snowfall  of  innumerable  years,  that  have  accumulated 
upon  its  intermingled  branches.  The  white  man's  axe 
lias  never  smitten  a  single  tree ;  his  footstep  has  never 
crumpled  a  single  one  of  the  withered  leaves,  which  all 
the  autumns  since  the  flood  liave  been  harvesting  be- 
neath. Yet,  see !  along  through  the  vista  of  impending 
boughs,  there  is  already  a  faintly  traced  path,  running 
nearly  east  and  west,  as  if  a  prophecy  or  foreboding  of 
the  future  street  had  stolen  into  the  heart  of  the  solemn 
old  wood.  Onward  goes  this  hardly  perceptible  track, 
now  ascending  over  a  natural  swell  of  land,  now  subsid- 
ing gently  into  a  hollow ;  traversed  here  by  a  little 
streamlet,  which  glitters  like  a  snake  through  the  gleam 
of  sunshine,  and  quickly  hides  itself  among  the  under- 
brush, in  its  quest  for  the  neighboring  cove  ;  and  impeded 
there  by  the  massy  corpse  of  a  giant  of  the  forest,  which 
had  lived  out  its  incalculable  terui  of  life,  and  been  over- 


MAIN    STREET.  61 

thrown  bv,  mere  old  age,  and  lies  buried  in  tlie  new 
vegetation  that  is  born  of  ils  decay.  AVhat  footsteps  can 
have  worn  this  half-seen  path  ?  Hark  !  Do  we  not  hear 
them  now  rnstling  softly  over  the  leaves?  We  discern 
an  Indian  woman,  —  a  majestic  and  queenly  woman,  or 
else  her  spectral  image  does  not  represent  her  truly,  — 
for  this  is  the  great  Squaw  Sachem,  whose  rule,  with 
that  of  her  sons,  extends  from  Mystic  to  Agawam.  That 
red  chief,  who  stalks  by  her  side,  is  Wappacowet,  her 
second  husband,  the  priest  and  magician,  whose  nican- 
tations  shall  hereafter  affright  the  pale-faced  settlers  with 
grisly  phantoms,  dancing  and  shrieking  in  the  woods, 
at  midnight.  But  greater  would  be  the  affright  of  the 
Indian  necromancer,  if,  mirrored  in  the  pool  of  water  at 
his  feet,  he  could  catch  a  prophetic  glimpse  of  the  noon- 
day marvels  which  the  white  man  is  destined  to  achieve ; 
if  he  could  see,  as  in  a  dream,  the  stone  front  of  the 
stately  hall,  wliich  will  cast  its  shadow  over  this  very 
spot;  if  he  could  be  aware  that  the  future  edifice  will 
contain  a  noble  Museum,  where,  among  countless  curi- 
osities of  earth  and  sea,  a  few  Indian  arrow-heads  shall 
be  treasured  up  as  memorials  of  a  vanished  race  ! 

No  such  forebodings  disturb  the  Squaw  Sachem  and 
"Wappacowet.  They  pass  on,  beneath  the  tangled  shade, 
holding  high  talk  on  matters  of  state  and  religion,  and 
imagine,  doubtless,  that  their  own  system  of  affairs  will 
endure  forever.  Meanwhile,  how  full  of  its  own  proper 
life  is  the  scene  that  lies  around  them !  The  gray 
squirrel  runs  up  the  trees,  and  rustles  among  the  u])pcr 
branches.  Was  not  that  the  lea])  of  a  deer  ?  And  there 
is  the  whirr  of  a  partridge  !  Methinks,  too,  I  catch  the 
cruel  and  stealthy  eye  of  a  wolf,  as  he  draws  back  into 
yonder  impervious  density  of  underbrush.  So,  there, 
amid  the  murmur  of  boughs,  go  the  Indian  queen  and 


C)-Z  ]\iAix  stkj;i;t. 

tlie  Indian  prinst ;  mIhIc  tlie  gloom  of  the  broad  wilder- 
ness impends  over  thorn,  and  its  sombre  mystery  invests 
them  as  with  something  preternatural ;  and  only  mo- 
mentary streaks  of  rpiivering  sunlight,  once  in  a  great 
while,  find  their  way  down,  and  glimmer  among  the  feath- 
ers in  their  dusky  hair.  Can  it  be  that  the  thronged 
street  of  a  city  will  ever  pass  into  this  twilight  solitude, 
—  over  those  soft  heaps  of  the  decaying  tree-trunks,  and 
through  the  swampy  places,  green  with  water-moss,  and 
penetrate  that  iiopeless  entanglement  of  great  trees,  which 
iiave  been  uprooted  and  tossed  together  by  a  whirlwind  ? 
It  has  been  a  wilderness  from  the  creation.  Must  it  not 
be  a  wilderness  forever  ? 

Here  an  acidulous-looking  gentleman  in  blue  glasses, 
with  bows  of  Berlin  steel,  who  has  taken  a  seat  at  the 
extremity  of  the  front  row,  begins,  at  this  early  stage  of 
the  exhibition,  to  criticise. 

"The  whole  affair  is  a  manifest  catchpenny! "  observes 
he,  scarcely  under  his  breath.  "  The  trees  look  more 
like  weeds  in  a  garden  than  a  primitive  forest ;  the 
Scpiaw  Sachem  and  VVappacowet  are  stiff  in  their  paste- 
board joints ;  and  the  squirrels,  the  deer,  and  the  wolf 
move  with  all  the  grace  of  a  child's  wooden  monkey, 
sliding  up  and  down  a  stick." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  candor  of  your 
remarks,"  replies  the  showman,  with  a  bow.  "  Perhaps 
they  arc  just.  Human  art  has  its  limits,  ami  we  must 
now  and  then  ask  a  little  aid  from  the  sp2ctator's  imagi- 
nation." 

"  You  will  get  no  such  aid  from  mine,"  responds  the 
critic.  "  I  make  it  a  point  to  see  things  precisely  as  they 
are.     But  come  !  go  ahead  !  the  stage  is  waiting  !  " 

The  showman  proceeds. 

Casting  our  eyes  again  over  the  scene,  we    perceive 


MAIN    STREET.  63 

that  strangers  have  tbuiid  their  way  into  the  solitary 
place.  In  more  than  one  spot,  among  the  trees,  an  up- 
heaved axe  is  glittering  in  the  sunshine.  Roger  Conaut, 
the  first  settler  in  Naumkeag,  has  built  his  dwelling, 
montiis  ago,  on  the  border  of  tlie  forest-path;  and  at 
this  moment  he  comes  eastward  through  the  vista  of 
woods,  with  his  gnu  over  his  shoulder,  bringing  home 
tlie  choice  portions  of  a  deer.  His  stalwart  ligure,  clad 
in  a  leathern  jerkin  and  breeches  of  the  same,  strides 
sturdily  onward,  with  such  an  air  of  physical  force  and 
energy  that  we  might  almost  expect  the  very  trees  to 
stand  aside,  and  give  him  room  to  pass.  And  so,  in- 
deed, they  must ;  for,  humble  as  is  his  name  in  history, 
Koger  Conant  still  is  of  that  class  of  men  who  do  not 
merely  find,  but  make,  their  place  in  the  system  of 
human  affairs  ;  a  man  of  thoughtful  strength,  lie  has 
planted  the  germ  of  a  cify.  Tliere  stands  his  habi- 
tation, showing  in  its  rough  architecture  some  features 
of  the  Indian  wigwam,  and  some  of  the  log-cabin,  and 
somewhat,  too,  of  the  straw-thatched  cottage  in  Old 
England,  where  this  good  yeoman  had  his  birth  and 
breeding.  The  dwelling  is  surrounded  by  a  cleared 
space  of  a  few  acres,  where  Indian  corn  grows  thriv- 
ingly among  the  stumps  of  the  trees  ;  while  the  dark 
forest  hems  it  in,  and  seems  to  gaze  silently  and  solemn- 
ly, as  if  wondering  at  the  breadth  of  sunshine  which  the 
Avhite  man  spreads  around  him.  An  Indian,  half  hidden 
in  the  dusky  shade,  is  gazing  and  wondering  too. 

"\A'ithin  the  door  of  the  cottage  you  discern  the  wife, 
with  her  ruddy  English  cheek.-  Slie  is  singing,  doubt- 
less, a  psalm  tune,  at  her  household  work ;  or,  perhajjs 
she  sighs  at  the  remembrance  of  the  cheerful  gossi)),  and 
all  the  merry  social  life,  of  her  native  village  beyond  the 
vast  and    melancholv  sea.     Yet   the   next   moment    she 


64  MAIN    STREET. 

laughs,  with  sympathetic  glee,  at  the  sports  of  her  little 
tribe  of  children  ;  and  soon  turns  round,  with  the  home- 
look  in  her  face,  as  her  husband's  foot  is  heard  approach- 
ing the  rough-hewn  threshold.  How  sweet  must  it  be 
lor  those  who  have  an  Eden  in  their  hearts,  like  lloger 
Conant  and  his  wife,  to  find  a  new  world  to  project  it 
into,  as  they  have,  instead  of  dwelling  among  old  haunts 
of  men,  where  so  many  household  fires  have  been  kin- 
dled and  burnt  out,  that  the  very  glow  of  happiness  has 
something  dreary  in  it !  Not  that  this  pair  are  alone  in 
their  wild  Eden,  for  here  comes  Goodwife  Massey,  the 
young  spouse  of  Jetfrey  Massey,  from  her  home  hard  by, 
with  an  infant  at  her  breast.  Dame  Conant  has  another 
of  like  age  ;  and  it  shall  hereafter  be  one  of  the  disputed 
points  of  history  Avhich  of  these  two  babies  was  the  first 
town-born  child. 

But  see  !  lloger  Conant  has  other  neighbors  within 
view.  Peter  Palfrey  likewise  has  built  himself  a  house, 
and  so  has  Balch,  and  Norman,  and  Woodbury.  Their 
dwellings,  indeed,  —  such  is  the  ingenious  contrivance  of 
this  piece  of  pictorial  mechanism, — -seem  to  have  arisen, 
at  various  points  of  the  scene,  even  while  we  have  been 
looking  at  it.  The  forest-track,  trodden  more  and  more 
by  the  hobnailed  shoes  of  these  sturdy  and  ponderous 
Englishmen,  has  now  a  distinctness  which  it  never  could 
have  acquired  from  the  light  tread  of  a  hundred  times  as 
many  Indian  moccasins.  It  will  be  a  street,  anon.  As 
we  observe  it  now,  it  goes  onward  from  one  clearing  to 
another,  here  plunging  into  a  shadowy  strip  of  woods, 
there  open  to  the  sunshine,  but  everywhere  showing  a 
decided  line,  along  wJiich  human  interests  have  begun 
to  hold  their  career.  Over  yonder  swampy  spot,  two 
trees  have  been  felled,  and  laid  side  by  side  to  make  a 
causeway.     In  another  place,  the  axe  has  cleared  away  a 


MAIN    STREET.  65 

confused  intricacy  of  fallen  trees  and  clustered  bonglis, 
■wliich  had  been  tossed  together  by  a  hurricane.  So  now 
the  little  children,  just  beginning  to  run  alone,  may  trip 
along  the  path,  and  not  often  stumble  over  an  impedi- 
ment, unless  they  stray  from  it  to  gatlier  wood-berries 
beneath  the  trees.  And,  besides  the  feet  of  grown  peo- 
ple and  children,  there  are  the  cloven  hoofs  of  a  small 
herd  of  cows,  who  seek  their  subsistence  from  the  native 
grasses,  and  help  to  deepen  the  track  of  the  future 
thoroughfare.  Goats  also  browse  along  it,  and  nibble 
at  the  twigs  that  thrust  themselves  across  the  way.  Not 
seldom,  in  its  more  secluded  portions,  where  the  black 
shadow  of  the  forest  strives  to  hide  tlie  trace  of  human 
footsteps,  etalks  a  gaunt  wolf,  on  the  watch  for  a  kid  or 
a  young  calf;  or  fixes  liis  hungry  gaze  on  the  group  of 
cliildren  gathering  berries,  and  can  hardly  forbear  to  rush 
upon  them.  And  the  Indians,  coming  from  their  distant 
wigwams  to  view  the  white  man's  settlement,  marvel  at 
the  deep  track  which  he  makes,  and  perliaps  are  sad- 
dened by  a  flitting  presentiment  that  this  heavy  tread 
will  find  its  way  over  all  the  land  ;  and  that  the  wild 
woods,  the  wild  wolf,  and  the  wild  Indian  will  alike  be 
trampled  beneath  it.  Even  so  shall  it  be.  The  pave- 
ments of  the  Main  Street  must  b^  laid  over  the  red 
man's  grave. 

Behold  !  here  is  a  spectacle  wliich  should  be  ushered 
in  by  the  peal  of  trumpets,  if  Naumkeag  had  ever  yet 
lieard  that  cheery  music,  and  by  the  roar  of  cannon, 
echoing  among  the  woods.  A  procession,  — for,  by  its 
dignity,  as  marking  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  street, 
it  deserves  that  name,  — •  a  procession  advances  along  the 
pathway.  The  good  ship  Abigail  has  arrived  fron)  Eng- 
land, bringing  wares  and  merchandise,  for  the  comfort  of 
the  inhabitants,  and  tratTie  with  the  Indians;   brinirin? 


66  MAIN    STREET. 

passengers  too,  and,  more  important  than  all,  a  governor 
for  the  new  settlement.  Roger  Conant  and  Peter  Pal- 
frej,  with  their  companions,  have  been  to  the  shore  to 
welcome  him  ;  and  now,  with  such  honor  and  triumph 
as  their  rude  way  of  life  permits,  are  escorting  the  sea- 
flushed  voyagers  to  their  habitations.  At  the  point 
where  Endicott  enters  upon  the  scene,  two  venerable 
trees  unite  their  branches  high  above  his  head ;  thus 
forming  a  triumphal  arch  of  living  verdure,  beneath 
which  he  pauses,  with  his  wife  leaning  on  his  arm,  to 
catch  the  first  impression  of  their  new-found  home.  The 
old  settlers  gaze  not  less  earnestly  at  him,  than  he  at 
the. hoary  woods  and  the  rough  surface  of  the  clearings. 
They  like  his  bearded  face,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
broad-brimmed  and  steeple-crowned  Puritan  hat;  —  a 
visage  resolute,  grave,  and  thoughtful,  yet  apt  to  kindle 
with  that  glow  of  a  cheerful  spirit  by  which  men  of 
strong  character  are  enabled  to  go  joyfully  on  their 
proper  tasks.  His  form,  too,  as  you  see  it,  in  a  doublet 
and  hose  of  sad-colored  cloth,  is  of  a  manly  make,  fit  for 
toil  and  hardship,  and  fit  to  wield  the  heavy  sword  that 
hangs  from  his  leathern  belt.  His  aspect  is  a  better 
warrant  for  the  ruler's  ofiics  than  the  parchment  com- 
mission which  he  bears,  however  fortified  it  may  be  with 
the  broad  seal  of  the  London  council.  Peter  Palfrey 
nods  to  Roger  Conant.  "  The  worshipful  Court  of  As- 
sistants have  done  wisely,"  say  they  between  themselves. 
"They  have  chosen  for  our  gov^ernor  a  man  out  of  a 
thousand."  Then  they  toss  up  their  hats,  —  they,  and 
all  the  uncouth  figures  of  their  company,  most  of  whom 
are  clad  in  skins,  inasmuch  as  their  old  kersey  and  lin- 
sey-woolsey garments  have  been  torn  and  tattered  by 
many  a  long  month's  wear,  — they  all  toss  up  their  hats, 
and  salute  their  new  governor  and  captain  with  a  hearty 


MAIN    STllEET.  67 

English  sliout  of  welcome.  We  seem  to  hear  it  with  our 
own  ears,  so  perfectly  is  the  action  represented  in  this 
life-like,  this  almost  magic  picture  ! 

But  have  you  observed  the  lady  who  leans  upon  the  arm 
of  Endicott  ?  —  a  rose  of  beauty  from  an  English  garden, 
now  to  be  transplanted  to  a  fresher  soil.  It  may  be  that, 
long  years  —  centuries  indeed  —  after  this  tair  floAver 
shall  have  decayed,  other  flowers  of  the  same  race  will 
appear  in  the  same  soil,  and  gladden  other  generations 
with  hereditary  beauty.  Does  not  the  vision  haunt  us 
yet?  Has  not  Nature  kept  the  mould  unbroken,  deem- 
ing it  a  pity  that  the  idea  should  vanish  from  mor- 
tal sight  forever,  after  only  once  assuming  earthly  sub- 
stance ?  Do  we  not  recognize,  in  that  fair  woman's  face, 
the  model  of  features  which  still  beam,  at  happy  mo- 
ments, on  what  was  then  the  woodland  pathway,  but  lias 
long  since  grown  into  a  busy  street? 

"  This  is  too  ridiculous  !  —  positively  insufferable  !  " 
mutters  the  same  critic  who  had  before  expressed  his  dis- 
approbation. "  Here  is  a  pasteboard  figure,  such  as  a 
child  would  cut  out  of  a  card,  with  a  pair  of  very  dull  scis- 
sors; and  the  fellow  modestly  requests  us  to  see  in  it  the 
prototype  of  hereditary  beauty  !  " 

"  But,  sir,  you  have  not  the  proper  point  of  view,"  re- 
marks the  showman.  "  You  sit  altogether  too  near  to 
get  the  best  effect  of  my  pictorial  exhibition.  Pray, 
oblige  me  by  removing  to  this  other  bench,  and  I  venture 
to  assure  you  the  proper  light  and  shadow  will  tran'sform 
the  spectacle  into  quite  another  thing." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  replies  the  critic  ;  "  I  want  no  other  light 
and  shade.  I  have  already  told  you  that  it  is  my  business 
to  see  things  just  as  they  are." 

"I  would  suggest  to  the  author  of  this  ingenious  ex- 
hibition," observes  a  gontlenumly  pei'sou,  who  has  .shown 


68  MAIN    STREET. 

signs  of  being  mncli  interested,  —  "I^ould  suggest  that 
Anna  Gower,  the  first  Avife  of  Governor  Endicott,  and  who 
came  with  him  from  Enghind,  left  no  posterity ;  and  tliat, 
consequently,  we  cannot  he  indebted  to  that  honorable 
lady  for  any  specimens  of  feminine  loveliness  now  extant 
among  us." 

Having  nothing  to  allege  against  this  genealogical  ob- 
jection, the  showman  points  again  to  the  scene. 

During  this  little  interruption,  you  perceive  that  the 
Anglo-Saxon  energy  —  as  the  phrase  now  goes  —  has 
been  at  work  in  the  spectacle  before  us.  Su  many  chim- 
neys now  send  up  their  smoke,  that  it  begins  to  have  the 
aspect  of  a  village  street ;  ah  hough  everything  is  so  inar- 
tiiicial  and  inceptive,  that  it  seems  as  if  one  returning 
wave  of  the  wild  nature  might  overwhelm  it  all.  But  the 
one  edifice  which  gives  the  pledge  of  permanence  to  this 
bold  enterprise  is  seen  at  the  central  pohit  of  the  picture. 
There  stands  the  meeting-house,  a  small  structure,  low- 
roofed,  without  a  spire,  and  built  of  rough  timber,  newly 
hewn,  with  the  sap  still  in  the  logs,  and  here  and  there 
a  strip  of  bark  adhering  to  tliem.  A  meaner  temple  was 
never  consecrated  to  the  worship  of  the  Deity.  With 
tlie  alternative  of  kneeling  beneath  the  awful  vault  of  the 
firmament,  it  is  strange  that  men  should  creep  into  this 
pent-up  nook,  and  expect  God's  ])resence  there.  Such, 
at  least,  one  would  imagine,  might  be  the  feeling  of  these 
forest-settlers,  accustomed,-  as  they  had  been,  to  stand 
under  the  dim  arches  of  vast  cathedrals,  and  to  offer  up 
their  hereditary  worship  in  the  old  ivy-covered  churches 
of  rural  England,  around  which  lay  the  bones  of  many 
generations  of  their  forefathers.  How  could  they  dis- 
pense with  the  carved  altar-work  ?  —  how,  with  tlie  pic- 
tured windows,  where  the  light  of  common  day  was 
hallov.'ed  bv  beintjr  transmitted  throuu'h  the  o^lorificd  fig- 


MAIN    STREET.  69 

ures  of  saints  ?  —  liow,  witli  the  lofty  roof,  imbued,  as  it 
must  hate  been,  with  the  prayers  that  had  gone  upward 
for  centuries  ?  —  how,  Avith  the  rich  peal  of  the  solemn 
organ,  rolling  along  the  aisles,  pervading  the  whole 
church,  and  sweeping  the  soul  away  on  a  flood  of  audible 
religion  ?  They  needed  nothing  of  all  this.  Their  house 
of  worship,  like  their  ceremonial,  was  naked,  simple,  and 
severe.  But  the  zeal  of  a  recovered  faith  burned  like  a 
lamp  within  their  hearts,  enriching  everything  around 
them  with  its  radiance ;  making  of  these  new  walls,  and 
this  narrow  compass,  its  own  cathedral ;  and  being,  in 
itself,  that  spiritual  mystery  and  experience,  of  which 
sacred  architecture,  pictured  windows,  and  the  organ's 
grand  solemnity  are  remote  and  imperfect  symbols.  All 
was  well,  so  long  as  their  lamps  were  freshly  kindled  at 
the  heavenly  flame.  After  a  while,  however,  whether  in 
their  time  or  their  children's,  these  lamps  began  to  burn 
more  dimly,  or  with  a  less  genuine  lustre;  and  then  it 
might  be  seen  how  hard,  cold,  and  confined  was  their 
system,  ■ — ■  how  like  an  iron  cage  was  that  which  they 
called  Liberty. 

Too  much  of  this.  Look  again  at  the  ])icture,  and 
observe  how  the  aforesaid  Anglo-Saxon  energy  is  now 
tram))ling  along  the  street,  and  raising  a  positive  cloud 
of  dust  beneath  its  sturdy  footsteps.  For  there  the  car- 
penters are  building  a  new  house,  the  frame  of  which 
was  hewn  and  fitted  in  England,  of  English  oak,  and  sent 
hitiier  on  shipboard  ;  and  here  a  blacksmith  makes  huge 
clang  and  clatter  on  his  anvil,  shaping  out  tools  and 
weapons  ;  and  yonder  a  M-heelwright,  who  boasts  himself 
a  London  workman,  regularly  bred  to  his  handicraft,  is 
fashioning, a  set  of  wagon-wheels,  the  track  of  which 
shall  soon  be  visible.  The  wild  forest  is  shrinking  back ; 
the  street  has  lost  the  aromatic  odor  of  the  pine-trees, 


70  MAIN    STREET. 

and  of  the  sweet-fern  that  grew  beneath  them.  The 
tender  and  modest  wild-flowers,  those  gentle  children  of 
savage  nature  that  grew  pale  beneath  the  ever-brooding 
shade,  have  shrunk  away  and  disappeared,  like  stars  that 
vanish  in  the  breadth  of  light.  Gardens  are  fenced  in, 
and  display  pumpkin-beds  and  rows  of  cabbages  and 
beans ;  and,  though  the  governor  and  the  minister  both 
view  them  with  a  disapproving  eye,  plants  of  broad- 
leaved  tobacco,  which  the  cultivators  are  enjoined  to  use 
privily,  or  not  at  all.  No  wolf,  for  a  year  past,  has  been 
heard  to  bark,  or  known  to  range  among  the  dwelluigs, 
except  that  single  one,  wdiose  grisly  head,  with  a  plash 
of  blood  beneath  it,  is  now  affixed  to  the  portal  of  the 
meeting-house.  The  partridge  has  ceased  to  run  across 
the  too-frequented  path.  Of  all  the  wild  life  that  used 
to  throng  here,  only  the  Indians  still  come  into  the  set- 
tlement, bringing  the  skins  of  beaver  and  otter,  bear  and 
elk,  which  they  sell  to  Eudicott  for  the  wares  of  England. 
And  there  is  little  J.ohu  Massey,  the  son  of  Jeffrey 
Massey  and  first-born  of  Naumkeag,  playing  beside  his 
father's  threshold,  a  child  of  six  or  seven  years  old. 
Which  is  the  better-grown  infant,  —  the  town  or  the  boy  ? 
The  red  men  have  become  aware  that  the  street  is  no 
longsr  free  to  them,  save  by  the  sufferance  and  permis- 
sion of  the  settlers.  Often,  to  impress  them  with  an  awe 
of  English  power,  there  is  a  muster  and  training  of  the 
town-forces,  and  a  stalely  march  of  the  mail-clad  band, 
like  this  which  we  now  see  advancing  up  the  street. 
There  they  come,  fifty  of  them,  or  more  ;  all  with  their 
iron  breastplates  and  steel  caps  well  burnished,  and  glhn- 
mering  bravely  against  the  sun ;  their  ponderous  muskets 
on  their  shoulders,  their  bandaliers  about  their  waists, 
their  lighted  matches  in  their  hands,  and  the  drum  and 
life  playing  cheerily  before  them.     Sje  !  do  they  not  step 


MAIN    STREET.  71 

like  martial  men  ?  Do  tliej  not  manoeuvre  like  soldiers 
who  have  seen  stricken  fields  'r'  And  Avell  they  may  ;  for 
this  band  is  composed  of  precisely  such  materials  as 
those  with  which  Cromwell  is  preparing  to  beat  down 
the  strength  of  a  kingdom ;  and  his  famous  regiment  of 
Ironsides  might  be  recruited  from  just  such  men.  In 
everything,  at  this  period,  New  England  was  the  essen- 
tial spirit  and  flower  of  that  which  was  about  to  become 
uppermost  in  the  mother-country.  Many  a  bold  and  wise 
man  lost  the  fame  which  would  have  accrued  to  him  in 
English  history,  by  crossing  the  Atlantic  with  our  fore- 
fathers. Many  a  valiant  captain,  who  might  have  been 
foremost  at  Marston  Moor  or  Naseby,  exhausted  his  mar- 
tial ardor  in  the  command  of  a  log-built  fortress,  like 
that  which  you  observe  on  the  gently  rising  ground  at 
the  right  of  the  pathway,  —  its  banner  fluttering  in  the 
breeze,  and  the  culverins  and  sakers  showing  their  deadly 
muzzles  over  the  rampart. 

A  multitude  of  people  were  now"  thronging  to  New 
England  :  some,  because  the  ancient  and  ponderous  frame- 
work of  Church  and  State  threatened  to  crumble  down 
upon  their  heads  ;  others,  because  they  despaired  of  such 
a  downfall.  Among  those  who  came  to  Naumkeag  were 
men  of  history  and  legend,  whose  feet  leave  a  track  of 
brightness  along  any  pathway  which  they  have  trodden. 
You  shall  behold  their  life-like  images  —  their  spectres, 
if  you  choose  so  to  call  them  —  passing,  encountering  with 
a  familiar  nod,  stopping  to  converse  together,  praying, 
bearing  weapons,  laboring  or  resting  from  their  labors,  in 
the  Main  Street.  Here,  now,  comes  Hugh  Peters,  an 
earnest,  restless  man,  walking  swiftly,  as  being  impelled 
by  that  fiery  activity  of  nature  which  shall  hereafter 
thrust  him  into  the  conflict  of  dangerous  allairs,  make 
him  the  chaplain  and  counsellor  of  Cromwell,  and  finally 


72  MAIN    STREET. 

briug  him  to  a  bloody  end.  He  pauses,  by  the  meeting- 
liouse,  to  exchange  a  greeting  with  Roger  Williams,  whose 
face  indicates,  methinks,  a  gentler  spirit,  kinder  and  more 
expansive,  than  that  of  Peters;  yet  not  less  active  for 
what  he  discerns  to  be  the  will  of  God,  or  the  welfare 
of  mankind.  And  look  !  here  is  a  guest  for  Endicott, 
coming  forth  out  of  the  forest,  through  which  he  has 
been  journeying  from  Boston,  and  which,  with  its  rude 
branches,  has  caught  hold  of  his  attire,  and  has  wet  his 
feet  with  its  swamps  and  streams.  Still  there  is  some- 
thing in  his  mild  and  venerable,  though  not  aged  pres- 
ence —  a  propriety,  an  equilibrium,  in  Governor  Win- 
throp's  nature  —  that  causes  the  disarray  of  his  costume 
to  be  unnoticed,  and  gives  us  the  same  impression  as  if 
he  were  clad  in  such  grave  and  rich  attire  as  we  may  sup- 
pose him  to  have  worn  in  the  Council  Chamber  of  the 
colony.  Is  not  this  characteristic  wonderfully  percepti- 
ble in  our  spectral  representative  of  his  psrson  ?  But 
what  dignitary  is  this  crossing  from  the  other  side  to 
greet  the  governor  ?  A  stately  personage,  in  a  dark  vel- 
vet cloak,  with  a  hoary  beard,  and  a  gold  chain  across  his 
breast ;  he  has  the  authoritative  port  of  one  who  has 
filled  tiie  highest  civic  station  in  the  first  of  cities.  Of 
all  men  in  the  world,  we  should  least  expect  to  meet  the 
Lord  Mayor  of  London  —  as  Sir  Richard  Saltonstall  has 
been,  once  and  again  —  in  a  forest-bordered  settlement 
of  the  western  wilderness. 

Farther  down  the  street,  we  see  Emanuel  Downing,  a 
grave  and  worthy  citizen,  ^vitli  his  son  George,  a  strip- 
ling who  has  a  career  before  him  ;  liis  shrewd  and  quick 
capacity  and  pliant  conscience  shall  not  only  exalt  him 
high,  but  secure  him  from  a  downfall.  Here  is  another 
figure,  on  whose  characteristic  make  and  expressive  ac- 
tion I  will  stake  the  credit  of  my  pictorial  puppet-show. 


MAIN    STREET.  73 

Have  you  not  already  detected  a  quaint,  sly  liumor  iu 
that  face,  —  an  eccentricity  in  the  manner,  —  a  certain 
indescribable  waywardness,  —  all  the  marks,  in  short,  of 
an  original  man,  unmistakably  impressed,  yet  ke])t  down 
by  a  sense  of  clerical  restraint  ?  That  is  Nathaniel  Ward, 
the  minister  of  Ipswich,  but  better  remembered  as  the 
simple  cobbler  of  Agawam.  He  hammered  his  sole  so 
faithfully,  and  stitched  his  upper-leather  so  well,  that  the 
shoe  is  hardly  yet  worn  out,  though  thrown  aside  for 
some  two  centuries  past.  And  next,  among  these  Puritans 
and  Roundheads,  we  observe  the  very  model  of  a  Cava- 
lier, with  the  curling  lovelock,  the  fantastically  trimmed 
beard,  the  embroidery,  the  ornamented  rapier,  the  gilded 
dagger,  and  all  other  foppishnesses  that  distinguished  the 
wild  gallants  who  rode  headlong  to  their  overthrow  in 
the  cause  of  King  Charles.  This  is  Morton  of  Merry 
Mount,  who  has  come  hither  to  hold  a  council  with  En- 
dicott,  but  will  shortly  be  his  prisoner.  Yonder  pale, 
decaying  figure  of  a  white-robed  woman,  who  glides 
slowly  along  the  street,  is  the  Lady  Arabella,  looking 
for  her  own  grave  in  the  virgin  soil.  That  other  female 
form,  who  seems  to  be  talking  —  we  might  almost  say 
preaching  or  expounding  —  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of 
profoundly  attentive  auditors,  is  Ann  Hutchinson.  And 
here  comes  Vane  — 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  interrupts  the  same  gentleman 
who  before  questioned  the  showman's  genealogical  accu- 
racy, "allow  me  to  observe  that  these  liistorical  person- 
ages could  not  possibly  have  met  together  in  the  Main 
Street.  They  might,  and  probably  did,  all  visit  our  old 
town,  at  one  time  or  another,  but  not  simultaneously  ; 
and  you  have  fallen  into  anachronisqis  that  I  positively 
shudder  to  think  of!  " 

*'  The  fellow,"  adds  the  scarcely  civil  critic,  "  has 
4 


74  MAIN    STREET. 

learned  a  bead-roll  of  historic  names,  wlioni  lie  lugs  into 
his  pictorial  puppet-show,  as  he  calls  it,  helter-skelter, 
without  caring  whether  they  were  contemporaries  or  not, 

—  and  sets  them  all  by  the  ears  together.  But  was 
there  ever  such  a  fund  of  impudence  ?  To  hear  his 
running  commentary,  you  would  suppose  that  these  mis- 
erable slips  of  painted  pasteboard,  with  hardly  the  remot- 
est outlines  of  the  human  figure,  had  all  the  character 
and  expression  of  j\Iichael  Augelo's  pictures.  Well !  go 
on,  sir !  " 

"  Sir,  you  break  the  illusion  of  the  scene,"  mildly 
remonsl  rates  the  showman. 

"  Illusion  !  What  illusion  ?  "  rejoins  the  critic,  with  a 
contemptuous  snort.  "  On  the  word  of  a  gentleman,  I 
see  nothing  illusive  in  the  wretchedly  bedaubed  slieet  of 
canvas  that  forms  your  background,  or  in  these  paste- 
board slips  that  hitch  and  jerk  along  the  front.  The 
only  illusion,  permit  me  to  say,  is  in  the  puppet-show- 
man's tongue,  —  and  that  but  a  wretched  one,  into  the 
bargain ! " 

"  We  public  men,"  replies  the  showman,  meekly,  "  must 
lay  our  account,  sometimes,  to  meet  an  uncandid  severity 
of  criticism.     But  —  merely  for  your  own  pleasure,  sir 

—  let  me  entreat  you  to  take  another  point  of  view.  Sit 
farther  back,  by  that  young  lady,  in  whose  face  I  have 
watched  the  reflection  of  every  changing  scene ;  only 
oblige  me  by  sitting  there;  and,  take  my  word  for  it, 
the  slips  of  pasteboard  shall  assume  spiritual  life,  and 
the  bedaubed  canvas  become  an  airy  and  changeable 
reflex  of  what  it  purports  to  represent." 

"I  know  better,"  retorts  the  critic,  settling  himself  in 
his  seat,  with  sullen  but  self-complacent  immovableness. 
"And,  as  for  my  own  pleasure,  I  shall  best  consult  it  by 
remaining  precisely  where  I  am." 


MAIN    STREET,  75 

The  showman  bows,  and  waves  his  liand ;  and,  at  the 
sif^nal,-  as  if  time  and  vicissitude  had  been  awaiting  his 
permission  to  move  onward,  the  mimic  street  becomes 
alive  again. 

Years  have  rolled  over  our  scene,  and  converted  the 
forest-track  into  a  dusty  thoroughfare,  which,  being 
intersected  with  lanes  and  cross-paths,  may  fairly  be 
designated  as  the  Main  Street.  On  the  ground-sites  of 
many  of  the  log-built  sheds,  into  which  the  first  settlers 
crept  for  shelter,  houses  of  quaint  architecture  have  now 
risen.  These  later  edifices  are  budt,  as  you  see,  in  one 
generally  accordant  style,  though  with  such  subordinate 
variety  as  keeps  the  beholder's  curiosity  excited,  and 
causes  each  structure,  like  its  owner's  character,  to  pro- 
duce its  own  peculiar  impression.  Most  of  them  have 
one  huge  chimney  in  the  centre,  with  flues  so  vast  that 
it  must  have  been  easy  for  the  witches  to  fly  out  of 
tliera,  as  they  were  wont  to  do,  when  bound  on  an  aerial 
visit  to  the  Black  Man  in  the  forest.  Around  this  great 
chimney  the  wooden  house  clusters  itself,  in  a  whole 
community  of  gable-ends,  each  ascending  into  its  oAvn 
separate  peak ;  the  second  story,  with  its  lattice-windows, 
projecting  over  the  first;  and  tiie  door,  whicli  is  perhaps 
arclied,  provided  on  the  outside  with  an  iron  hannner, 
wherewitii  the  visitor's  hand  may  give  a  thundering  rat- 
a-tat.  The  timber  fran>ework  of  these  houses,  as  com- 
pared with  those  of  recent  date,  is  like  the  skeleton  of 
an  old  giant,  beside  the  frail  bones  of  a  modern  man  of 
fashion.  Many  of  them,  by  the  vast  strength  and  sound- 
ness of  their  oaken  substance,  have  been  preserved 
through  a  length  of  time  whicli  would  have  tried  the  sta- 
bility of  brick  and  stone;  so  that,  in  all  the  progressive 
decay  and  continual  reconstruction  of  the  street,  down 
to  our  own  davs,  we  shall  still  behold  these  old  edifices 


76  MAIX    STREET. 

occupying  their  long-accustomed  sites.  For  instance, 
on  the  upper  corner  of  that  green  lane  which  shall  here- 
after  be  Nortli  Street,  we  see  the  Curwen  House,  newly 
built,  with  the  carpenters  still  at  work  on  the  roof  nail- 
ing down  the  last  sheaf  of  shingles.  On  the  lower  cor- 
ner stands  another  dwelhng,  —  destined,  at  some  period 
of  its  existence,  to  be  the  abode  of  an  unsuccessful  alche- 
mist,—  which  shall  likewise  survive  to  our  own  genera- 
tion, and  perhaps  long  outlive  it.  Thus,  tiirougli  the 
medium  of  these  patriarchal  edifices,  we  have  now  estab- 
lished a  sort  of  kindred  and  hereditary  acquaintance 
with  the  Main  Street. 

Great  as  is  the  transformation  produced  by  a  short 
term  of  years,  each  single  day  creeps  through  the  Puritan 
settlement  sluggishly  enough.  It  shall  pass  before  your 
eyes,  condensed  into  the  space  of  a  few  moments.  The 
gray  light  of  early  morning  is  slowly  diffusing  itself  over 
the  scene ;  and  the  bellman,  whose  office  it  is  to  cry  the 
hour  at  the  street-corners,  rings  the  last  peal  upon  his 
hand  bell,  and  goes  wearily  homewards,  with  the  owls, 
the  bats,  and  other  creatures  of  the  night.  Lattices  are 
thrust  back  on  their  hinges,  as  if  the  town  were  opening 
its  eyes,  in  the  summer  morning.  Forth  stumbles  the 
still  drowsy  cowherd,  with  his  horn ;  putting  which  to 
his  lips,  it  emits  a  bellowing  bray,  impossible  to  be  rep- 
resented in  the  picture,  but  which  reaches  the  pricked-up 
ears  of  every  cow  in  the  settlement,  and  tells  her  that  the 
dewy  pasture-hour  is  come.  House  after  house  awakes, 
and  sends  the  smoke  up  curling  from  its  chimney,  like 
frosty  breath  from  living  nostrils ;  and  as  those  white 
wreaths  of  smoke,  though  impregnated  with  earthy  ad- 
mixtures, climb  skyward,  so,  from  each  dwelling,  does 
tlie  morning  worship  —  its  spiritual  essence,  bearing  up 
its  hnman  imp^^rfection  —  find  its  Avay  to  the  heavenly 
Father's  throne. 


MAIN    STREET.  77 

The  breakfast -Lour  being  passed,  the  inhahitaiits  do 
not,  as  usual,  go  to  their  fields  or  workshops,  but  remain 
withindoors;  or  perhaps  walk  the  street,  with  a  grave 
sobriety,  yet  a  disengaged  and  unburdened  aspect,  that 
belongs  neither  to  a  holiday  nor  a  Sabbath.  And,  indeed, 
this  passing  day  is  neither,  nor  is  it  a  common  week-day, 
although  partaking  of  all  the  three.  It  is  the  Thursday 
Lecture  ;  an  institution  which  New  England  has  long  ago 
relinquished,  and  almost  forgotten,  yet  which  it  would 
have  been  better  to  retain,  as  bearing  relations  to  both 
the  spiritual  and  ordinary  life,  and  bringing  each  ac- 
quainted with  the  other.  The  tokens  of  its  observance, 
however,  which  here  meet  our  eyes,  are  of  rather  a  ques- 
tionable cast.  It  is,  in  one  sense,  a  day  of  public  shame  ; 
the  day  on  which  transgressors,  who  have  made  them- 
selves liable  to  the  minor  severities  of  the  Puritan  law, 
receive  their  reward  of  ignominy.  At  this  very  moment, 
the  constable  has  bound  an  idle  fellow  to  the  whipping- 
post, and  is  giving  him  his  deserts  with  a  cat-o'-nine- 
tails. Ever  since  sunrise,  Daniel  Eairfield  has  been 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  meeting-house,  with  a  halter 
about  his  neck,  Mdiich  he  is  condemned  to  wear  visibly 
throughout  his  lifetime ;  Dorothy  Talby  is  chained  to  a 
post  at  the  corner  of  Prison  Lane,  with  the  hot  sun  blazing 
on  her  matronly  face,  and  all  for  no  other  offence  than 
lifting  her  hand  against  her  husband  ;  while,  through  the 
bars  of  that  great  wooden  cage,  in  the  centre  of  the  scene, 
we  discern  either  a  human  being  or  a  wild  beast,  or  both 
in  one,  whom  this  public  infamy  causes  to  roar,  and  gnash 
liis  teeth,  and  shake  the  strong  oaken  bars,  as  if  he  would 
break  forth,  and  tear  in  pieces  the  little  children  who  have 
been  peeping  at  him.  Such  are  the  profitable  sights  that 
serve  the  good  people  to  while  away  the  earlier  part  of 
lecture-day.     Betimes  in  the  forenoon,  a  traveller  —  the 


78  MAIN    STREET. 

first  traveller  that  has  come  hitherward  this  mornmg  — 
rides  slowly  iuto  the  street  ou  his  patient  steed.  He 
seems  a  clergyiiiau ;  and,  as  he  draws  near,  we  recognize 
the  minister  of  Lyun,  who  was  pre-engaged  to  lecture 
here,  and  has  been  revolving  his  discourse,  as  he  rode 
through  the  hoary  wilderness.  Behold,  now,  the  whole 
town  thronging  into  the  meeting-house,  mostly  with  such 
sombre  visages  that  the  sunshine  becomes  little  better 
than  a  shadow  when  it  falls  upon  them.  There  go  the 
Thirteen  Men,  grim  rulers  of  a  grim  community  !  There 
goes  John  Massey,  the  first  town-born  child,  uow^  a  youth 
of  twenty,  whos3  eye  wanders  with  peculiar  interest  to- 
wards that  buxom  damssl  who  comes  up  the  steps  at  the 
same  instant.  There  hobbles  Goody  Foster,  a  sour  and 
bitter  old  beldam,  looking  as  if  she  went  to  curse,  and 
not  to  pray,  and  whom  many  of  her  neighbors  suspect  of 
taking  an  occasional  airing  on  a  broomstick.  There,  too, 
slinking  shamefacedly  in,  you  observe  that  same  poor  do- 
nothing  and  good-for-nothing  w4iom  we  saw  castigated 
just  now  at  the  whipping-post.  Last  of  all,  there  goes 
the  tithing-mau,  lugging  in  a  couple  of  small  boys,  whom 
he  has  caught  at  play  beneath  God's  blessed  sunshine,  in 
a  back  lane.  What  native  of  Naumkeag,  whose  recollec- 
tions go  back  more  than  thirty  years,  does  not  still  shud- 
der at  that  dark  ogre  of  his  infancy,  who  perhaps  had 
long  ceased  to  have  an  actual  existence,  but  still  lived  in 
his  childish  belief,  in  a  horrible  idea,  and  in  tiie  nurse's 
threat,  as  the  Tidy  Man ! 

It  will  be  hardly  worth  our  while  to  wait  two,  or  it 
may  be  three,  turnings  of  the  hour-ghiss,  for  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  lecture.  Therefore,  by  my  control  over  light 
and  darkness,  I  cause  the  dusk,  and  then  the  starless 
night,  to  brood  over  the  street ;  and  summon  forth  again 
the  bellman,  with  his  lantern  casting  a  gleam  about  his 


MAIN    STREET.  79 

footsteps,  to  pace  wearily  from  corner  to  corner,  and 
shout  drowsily  the  hour  to  drowsy  or  dreaming  eais. 
Happy  are  we,  if  for  nothing  else,  yet  because  we  did 
not  live  hi  those  days.  In  truth,  wlien  the  first  novelty 
and  stir  of  spirit  had  subsided, — when  the  new  settle- 
ment, between  the  forest -border  and  ihe  sea,  had  become 
actually  a  little  town,  — ■  its  daily  life  must  have  trudged 
onward  with  hardly  anything  to  diversify  and  enliven  it, 
while  also  its  rigidity  could  not  fail  to  cause  miserable 
distortions  of  the  moral  nature.  Such  a  life  was  sinister 
to  the  intellect,  and  sinister  to  the  heart ;  especially  when 
one  generation  had  bequeathed  its  religious  gloom,  and 
the  counterfeit  of  its  religious  ardor,  to  the  next;  for 
these  characteristics,  as  was  inevitable,  assumed  the  form 
both  of  hypocrisy  and  exaggeration,  by  being  inherited 
from  the  example  and  precept  of  other  liuman  beings, 
and  not  from  an  original  and  spiritual  source.  The  sons 
and  grandchildren  of  the  first  settlers  were  a  race  of 
lower  and  narrower  souls  than  their  progenitors  had  been. 
The  latter  were  stern,  severe,  intolerant,  but  not  super- 
stitious, not  even  fanatical ;  and  endowed,  if  any  men  of 
that  age  were,  with  a  far-seeing  worldly  sagacity.  But 
it  was  impossible  for  the  succeeding  race  to  grow  up,  in 
heaven's  freedom,  beneath  the  discipline  which  their 
gloomy  energy  of  character  had  established ;  nor,  it  may 
be,  have  we  even  yet  thrown  ofi'  all  the  unfavorable  influ- 
ences which,  among  many  good  ones,  were  bequeathed  to 
us  by  our  Puritan  forefathers.  Let  us  thank  God  for 
having  given  us  such  ancestors ;  and  let  each  successive 
generation  thank  him,  not  less  fervently,  for  being  one 
step  further  from  them  in  the  march  of  ages. 

"  What  is  all  this  ?  "  cries  the  critic.  "  A  sermon  ? 
If  so,  it  is  not  in  the  bill." 

"  Very  true,"  replies  the  shoMinan;  "and  I  ask  par- 
don of  th:?  audience." 


80  MAIN    STREET. 

Look  now  at  tlie  street,  and  observe  a  strange  people 
entering  it.  Tlieir  garments  are  torn  and  disordered, 
their  faces  haggard,  their  figures  emaciated;  for  they 
have  made  thsir  way  hither  through  pathless  deserts, 
suffering  hunger  and  hardship,  with  no  other  shelter 
than  a  hollow  tree,  the  lair  of  a  wild  beast,  or  an  Indian 
wigwam.  Nor,  in  the  most  inhospitable  and  dangerous 
of  such  lodging-places,  was  there  half  the  peril  that  awaits 
them  in  this  thoroughfare  of  Christian  men,  with  those 
.  secure  dwellings  and  warm  hearths  on  either  side  of  it,  and 
yonder  meeting-house  as  the  central  object  of  the  scene. 
These  wanderers  have  received  from  Heaven  a  gift  that, 
in  all  epochs  of  the  world,  has  brought  with  it  the  penal- 
ties of  mortal  suffering  and  persecution,  scorn,  enmity, 
and  death  itself;  — a  gift  that,  thus  terrible  to  its  pos- 
sessors, has  ever  been  most  hateful  to  all  other  men, 
since  its  very  existence  seems  to  threaten  the  overthrow 
of  whatever  else  the  toilsome  ages  have  built  up ;  —  the 
gift  of  a  new  idea.  You  can  discern  it  in  them,  illumi- 
nating their  faces  —  their  whole  persons,  indeed,  how- 
ever earthly  and  cloddish  —  with  a  light  that  inevitably 
shines  through,  and  makes  the  startled  community  aware 
that  these  men  are  not  as  they  themselves  are,  —  not 
brethren  nor  neighbors  of  their  thought.  Forthwith,  it 
is  as  if  an  earthquake  rumbled  through  the  town,  making 
its  vibrations  felt  at  every  hearthstone,  and  especially 
causing  the  spire  of  the  meeting-house  to  totter.  The 
Quakers  have  come.  We  are  in  peril !  See  !  they  tram- 
ple upon  our  wise  and  well-established  laws  in  the  person 
of  our  chief  magistrate ;  for  Governor  Endicott  is  pass- 
ing, now  an  aged  man,  and  dignified  with  long  habits  of 
authority,  —  and  not  one  of  the  irreverent  vagabonds 
has  moved  his  hat.  Did  you  note  the  ominous  frown  of 
the  white-bearded  Puritan  governor,  as  he  turned  himself 


JIAIX    STREET.  81 

about,  and,  in  his  auger,  lialf  uplifted  the  staff  that  has 
become  a  needful  support  to  his  old  age  ?  Here  comrs 
old  Mr.  Norris,  our  venerable  minister.  Will  they  doff 
their  hats,  and  pay  reverence  to  him  ?  INTo :  their  hats 
stick  fast  to  their  ungracious  heads,  as  if  they  grew  there  ; 
and- —  impious  varlets  that  they  are,  and  worse  than  the 
heathen  Indians  !  —  they  eye  our  reverend  paster  with  a 
peculiar  scorn,  distrust,  unbelief,  and  utter  denial  of  his 
sanctified  pretensions,  of  which  he  himself  immediately 
becomes  conscious ;  the  more  bitterly  conscious,  as  he 
never  knew  nor  dreamed  of  the  like  before. 

But  look  yonder!  Can  we  believe  our  eyes?  A 
Quaker  woman,  clad  in  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes  on  her 
head,  has  mounted  the  steps  of  the  meeting-house.  She 
addresses  the  people  in  a  wild,  shrill  voice,  —  wild  and 
shrill  it  must  be  to  suit  such  a  figure,  - —  which  makes 
them  tremble  and  turn  pale,  although  they  crowd  open- 
mouthed  to  hear  her.  She  is  bold  against  established  au- 
thority ;  she  denounces  the  priest  and  his  steeple-house. 
Many  of  her  hearers  are  appalled  ;  some  weep  ;  and  oth- 
ers listen  with  a  rapt  attention,  as  if  a  living  truth  had 
now,  for  the  first  time,  forced  its  way  through  the  crust 
of  habit,  reached  their  hearts,  and  awakened  them  to 
life.  This  matter  must  be  looked  to ;  else  we  have  brought 
our  faith  across  the  seas  with  us  in  vain;  and  it  had 
been  better  that  the  old  forest  were  still  standing  here, 
waving  its  tangled  boughs  and  murmuring  to  the  sky 
out  of  its  desolate  recesses,  instead  of  this  goodly  street, 
if  such  blasphemies  be  spoken  in  it. 

So  thought  the  old  Puritans.  What  was  their  mode 
of  action  may  be  partly  judged  from  the  spectacles 
which  now  pass  before  your  eyes.  Joshua  Buflum  is 
standiug  in  the  pillory.  Cassandra  South  wick  is  led  to 
prison.     And  there  a  woman,  —  it  is  Ann  Coleman,  — 

4*  F 


O-Z  MAIX    STREET. 

naked  from  tlie  waist  upward,  and  bound  to  the  tail  of 
a  cart,  is  dragged  through  the  Main  Street  at  the  pace 
of  a  brisk  walk,  while  the  constable  follows  with  a  whip 
of  knotted  cords.  A  strong-armed  fellow  is  that  con- 
stable ;  and  each  time  that  he  flourishes  his  lash  in  the 
air,  you  see  a  frown  wrinkling  and  twisting  his  brow, 
and,  at  the  same  instant,  a  smile  upon  his  lips.  He 
loves  his  business,  faithful  oflicar  that  he  is,  and  puts 
his  soul  into  every  stroke,  zealous  to  fulfil  the  injunc- 
tion of  Major  Hawthorne's  warrant,  in  the  spirit  and  to 
the  letter.  There  came  down  a  stroke  that  has  drawn 
blood !  Ten  such  stripes  are  to  be  given  in  Salem,  ten 
in  Boston,  and  ten  in  Dedhara  ;  and,  with  those  thirty 
stripes  of  blood  upon  her,  she  is  to  be  driven  into  the 
forest.  The  crimson  trail  goes  wavering  along  the  Main 
Street;  but  Heaven  grant  that,  as  the  rain  of -so  many 
years  has  wept  upon  it,  time  after  time,  and  washed  it 
all  away,  so  there  may  have  been  a  dew  of  mercy,  to 
cleanse  this  cruel  blood-stain  out  of  the  record  of  the 
persecutor's  Hfe ! 

Pass  on,  thou  spectral  constable,  and  betake  thee  to 
thine  own  place  of  torment.  Meanwhile,  by  the  silent 
operation  of  the  mechanism  behind  the  scenes,  a  consid- 
erable space  of  time  would  seem  to  have  lapsed  over 
the  street.  The  older  dwellings  now  begin  to  look 
weather-beaten,  through  the  effect  of  the  many  eastern 
storms  that  have  moistened  their  unpainted  shingles  and 
clapboards,  for  not  less  than  forty  years.  Such  is  the 
age  we  would  assign  to  the  town,  judging  by  the  aspect 
of  John  Massey,  the  first  town-born  child,  whom  his 
neighbors  now  call  Goodman  Massey,  and  whom  we  see 
yonder,  a  grave,  almost  autumnal-looking  man,  with 
children  of  his  own  about  him.  To  the  patriarchs  of 
the  settlement,  no  doubt,  the  Main  Street  is  still  but  an 


]\rAIN    STREET.  83 

aifair  of  yesterday,  liardly  more  antique,  even  if  destined 
to  be  more  perniauent,  than  a  patii  shovelled  through  the 
snow.  But  to  the  middle-aged  and  elderly  men  Avho 
came  hither  in  childhood  or  early  youth,  it  presents  tlie 
aspect  of  a  long  and  well-established  work,  on  which 
they  have  expended  the  strength  and  ardor  of  their  life. 
And  the  younger  people,  native  to  the  street,  Avhose 
earliest  rectjllections  are  of  creeping  over  the  paternal 
threshold,  and  rolling  on  the  grassy  margin  of  the  track, 
look  at  it  as  one  of  the  j)erdurable  things  of  our  mortal 
state,  —  as  old  as  the  hills  of  the  great  pasture,  or  the 
headland  at  the  harbor's  mouth.  Their  fathers  and 
grandsires  tell  them  how,  within  a  few  years  past,  the 
forest  stood  here,  Avith  but  a  lonely  track  beneath  its 
tangled  shade.  Vain  legend  !  They  cannot  make  it 
true  and  real  to  their  conceptions.  With  them,  more- 
over, the  Main  Street  is  a  street  indeed,  worthy  to  hold 
its  way  with  the  thronged  and  stately  avenues  of  cities 
beyond  the  sea.  The  old  Puritans  tell  them  of  the 
croAvds  that  hurry  along  Cheapside  and  Fleet  Street  and 
the  Strand,  and  of  the  rush  of  tumultuous  life  at  Temple 
Bar.  They  describe  London  Bridge,  itself  a  street,  with 
a  row  of  houses  on  each  side.  They  speak  of  the  vast 
structure  of  the  Tower,  and  the  solemn  grandeur  of 
Westminster  Abbey.  The  children  hsten,  and  still  in- 
quire if  the  streets  of  London  are  longer  and  broader 
than  the  one  before  their  father's  door;  if  the  Tower  is 
bigger  than  the  jail  in  Prison  Lane ;  if  the  old  Abbey 
will  hold  a  larger  congregation  than  our  meeting-house. 
Nothing  impresses  them,  except  their  own  experience. 

It  seems  all  a  fable,  too,  that  wolves  have  ever 
prowled  here ;  and  not  less  so,  that  the  Squaw  Sachem, 
and  the  Sagamore  her  son,  once  ruled  over  this  region, 
and  treated  as  sovereign  potentates  with  the  English 


84  MAIX    STREET. 

settlers,  then  so  few  and  storm-beaten,  now  so  powerful. 
There  stand  some  school-boys,  you  observe,  in  a  little 
group  around  a  drunken  Indian,  himself  a  prince  of  the 
Squaw  Sachem's  lineage.  He  brought  hither  some 
beaver-skins  for  sale,  and  has  already  swallowed  the 
larger  portion  of  their  price,  in  deadly  draughts  of  fire- 
w^ater.  Is  there  not  a  touch  of  pathos  in  that  picture  ? 
and  does  it  not  go  far  towards  telling  the  whole  story  of 
the  vast  growth  and  prosperity  of  one  race,  and  the  fated 
decay  of  another?  —  the  children  of  the  stranger  making 
game  of  the  great  Squaw  Sachem's  grandson  ! 

But  the  whole  race  of  red  men  have  not  vanished 
■with  that  wild  princess  and  her  posterity.  This  march 
of  soldiers  along  the  street  betokens  the  breaking  out  of 
King  Philip's  war ;  and  these  young  men,  the  flower  of 
Essex,  are  on  their  way  to  defend  the  villages  on  the 
Connecticut;  where,  at  Bloody  Brook,  a  terrible  blow 
shall  be  smitten,  and  hardly  one  of  that  gallant  band  be 
left  alive.  And  there,  at  that  stately  mansion,  with  its 
three  peaks  in  front,  and  its  two  little  peaked  towers, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  door,  we  see  brave  Captain 
Gardner  issuing  forth,  clad  in  his  embroidered  buff-coat, 
and  his  pluuicd  cap  upon  his  head.  His  trusty  sword, 
in  its  steel  scabbard,  strikes  clanking  on  the  doorstep. 
See  how  the  people  throng  to  their  doors  and  windows, 
as  the  cavalier  rides  past,  reining  his  mettled  steed  so 
gallantly,  and  looking  so  like  the  very  soul  and  emblem 
of  martial  achievement,  —  destined,  too,  to  meet  a  war- 
rior's fate,  at  the  desperate  assault  on  the  fortress  of  the 
NaiTagansetts  ! 

"The  mettled  steed  looks  like  a  pig,"  interrupts  the 
critic,  "  and  Captain  Gardner  himself  like  the  Devil, 
though  a  very  tame  one,  and  on  a  most  diminutive 
scale." 


MAIN    STREET.  85 

"  Sir,  sir !  "  cries  the  persecuted  showman,  losiiif^  all 
patience,  —  for,  indeed,  he  had  ])articidarly  prided  himself 
on  these  figures  of  Captain  Gardner  and  his  horse,  —  "I 
see  that  there  is  no  hope  of  pleasing  you.  Pray,  sir,  do 
me  the  favor  to  take  back  your  money,  and  withdraw  !  " 

"  Not  I !  "  answers  the  unconscionable  ciilic.  "  I  am 
just  beginning  to  get  interested  in  the  matter.  Come  ! 
turn  your  crank,  and  grind  out  a  few  more  of  these  fool- 
eries !  " 

The  showman  rubs  his  brow  impulsively,  whisks  the 
little  rod  with  which  he  points  out  the  notabilities  of  the 
scene,  but,  finally,  with  the  inevitable  acquiescence  of  all 
public  servants,  resumes  his  composure  and  goes  on. 

Pass  onward,  ouward,  Time  !  Build  up  new  houses 
here,  and  tear  down  tliy  works  of  yesterday,  that  have 
already  the  rusty  moss  upon  them!  Summou  forth  the 
minister  to  the  abode  of  the  young  maiden,  and  bid  him 
unite  her  to  the  joyful  bridegroom  !  Let  the  youthful 
parents  carry  their  first-born  to  the  meeting-house,  to 
receive  the  baptismal  rite  !  Knock  at  the  door,  whence 
the  sable  line  of  the  funeral  is  next  to  issue  !  Provide 
other  successive  generations  of  men,  to  trade,  talk,  quar- 
rel, or  walk  in  friendly  intercourse  along  the  street,  as 
their  fathers  did  before  them  !  Do  all  thy  daily  and 
accustomed  business.  Father  Time,  in  this  thoroughfare, 
which  thy  footsteps,  for  so  many  years,  have  now  made 
dusty !  But  here,  at  last,  thou  leadest  along  a  proces- 
sion which,  once  witnessed,  shall  appear  no  more,  and 
be  remembered  only  as  a  hideous  dream  of  thine,  or  a 
frenzy  of  thy  old  brain. 

"  Turn  your  crank,  I  say,"  bellows  the  remorseless 
critic,  "  and  grind  it  out,  whatever  it  be,  without  further 
preface ! " 

The  showman  deems  it  best  to  comply. 


86  MAIN    STREET. 

Then,  liere  comes  the  worshipful  Captaiu  Curwen, 
slieriff  of  Essex,  on  horseback,  at  the  head  of  au  armed 
guard,  escorting  a  company  of  condemned  prisoners  from 
the  jail  to  their  place  of  execution  on  Gallows  Hill. 
The  witches !  There  is  no  mistaking  them !  The 
witches  !  As  they  approach  up  Prison  Lane,  and  turn 
into  the  Main  Street,  let  us  watch  their  faces,  as  if  we 
made  a  part  of  the  pale  crowd  that  presses  so  eagerly 
about  them,  yet  shrinks  back  with  such  shuddering 
dread,  leaving  an  open  passage  betwixt  a  dense  throng 
on  either  side.     Listen  to  what  the  people  say. 

There  is  old  George  Jacobs,  known  hereabouts,  these 
sixty  years,  as  a  man  whom  we  thought  upright  in  all 
his  way  of  life,  quiet,  blameless,  a  good  husband  before 
his  pious  wife  was  summoned  from  the  evil  to  come,  and 
a  good  father  to  the  children  wliom  she  left  him.  Ah! 
but  when  that  blessed  woman  went  to  heaven,  George 
Jacobs's  heart  was  empty,  his  hearth  lonely,  his  life 
broken  up  ;  his  children  were  married,  and  betook  them- 
selves to  habitations  of  their  own ;  and  Satan,  in  his 
wanderings  up  and  down,  beheld  this  forlorn  old  man,  to 
whom  life  was  a  sameness  and  a  weariness,  and  found 
the  way  to  tempt  him.  So  the  miserable  simier  was 
prevailed  with  to  mount  into  the  air,  and  career  among 
the  clouds  ;  and  he  is  proved  to  have  been  present  at  a 
witch-meeting  as  far  off  as  Falmouth,  on  the  very  same 
night  that  his  next  neighbors  saw  him,  with  his  rheu- 
matic stoop,  going  in  at  his  own  door.  There  is  John 
W'lUard,  too  ;  an  honest  man  we  thought  him,  and  so 
shrewd  and  active  in  his  business,  so  practical,  so  intent 
on  every-day  affairs,  so  constant  at  his  little  place  of 
trad?,  where  he  bartered  English  goods  for  Indian  corn 
and  all  kinds  of  country  produce  !  How  could  such  a 
man  liad  tiiu3y  or  what  could  put  it  into  his  mind,  to 


MAIN    STliEET.  87 

leave  liis  proper  calling,  and  become  a  wizard?  It  is 
a  mystery,  unless  the  Black  Man  tempted  liim  with 
great  heaps  of  gold.  See  that  aged  couple,  —  a  sad 
sight,  truly,  — John  Proctor,  and  his  wife  Elizabeth.  If 
there  were  two  old  people  in  all  the  county  of  Essex 
W'lio  seemed  to  have  led  a  true  Christian  life,  and  to  be 
treading  hopefully  the  little  remnant  of  their  earthly 
path,  it  was  this  very  pair.  Yet  have  we  heard  it 
sworn,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  worshipful  Chief-Justice 
Sewell,  and  all  the  court  and  jury,  that  Proctor  and  his 
Wife  have  shown  their  withered  faces  at  children's  bed- 
sides, mocking,  making  mouths,  and  affrighting  the  poor 
little  innocents  in  the  night-time.  They,  or  their  spec- 
tral appearances,  have  stuck  pins  into  the  afflicted  ones, 
and  thrown  them  into  deadly  fainthig-fits  with  a  touch,  or 
but  a  look.  And,  while  we  sup])osed  the  old  man  to  be 
reading  the  Bible  to  his  old  wife, —  she  meanwhile  knit- 
ting in  the  chimney-corner,  —  the  jiair  of  hoary  reprobates 
have  whisked  up  the  chimney,  both  on  one  broomstick, 
and  flown  away  to  a  witch-communion,  far  into  the  deptlis 
of  the  chill,  dark  forest.  How  foolish  !  Were  it  only 
for  fear  of  rheumatic  pains  in  their  old  bones,  they  had 
better  liave  stayed  at  home.  But  away  they  went ;  and 
the  laughter  of  their  decayed,  cackling  voices  has  been 
heard  at  midnight,  aloft  in  the  air.  Now,  in  the  sunny 
noontide,  as  they  go  tottering  to  the  gallows,  it  is  the 
Devil's  turn  to  laugh. 

Beliind  these  two,  —  who  help  another  along,  and 
seem  to  be  comforting  and  encouraging  each  other,  in  a 
manner  truly  pitiful,  if  it  were  not  a  sin  to  pity  the  old 
witch  and  wizard, — behind  them  comes  a  woman,  witii 
a  dark  proud  face  that  has  been  beautiful,  and  a  figure 
that  is  still  majestic.  Do  you  know  her  ?  It  is  Martha 
Carrier,  whom  the  Devil  ibund  in  a  humble  cottaire,  and 


88  MAIN    STREET. 

looked  into  lier  cUsconteiited  heart,  and  saw  pride  tliere, 
and  tempted  her  with  his  promise  that  she  sliould  be 
Queen  of  Hell.  And  now,  with  that  lofty  demeanor, 
she  is  passing  to  her  kingdom,  and,  by  her  unquenchable 
pride,  transforms  this  escort  of  shame  into  a  triumphal 
procession,  that  shall  attend  her  to  the  gates  of  her  infer- 
nal palace,  and  seat  her  upon  the  fiery  throne.  Within 
this  hour,  she  shall  assume  her  royal  dignity. 

Last  of  the  miserable  train  comes  a  man  clad  in  black, 
of  small  stature  and  a  dark  complexion,  with  a  clerical 
band  about  his  neck.  Many  a  time,  in  the  years  gone 
by,  that  face  has  been  uplifted  heavenward  from  the  pul- 
pit of  the  East  Meeting-House,  when  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bnr- 
rouglis  seemed  to  worship  God.  What! — he?  The 
holy  man  !  —  the  learned  !  — the  wise  !  How  has  the 
Devil  tempted  him  ?  His  fellow-criminals,  for  the  most 
part,  are  obtuse,  uncultivated  creatures,  some  of  them 
scarcely  half-witted  by  nature,  and  others  greatly  de- 
cayed in  their  intellects  through  age.  Tliey  were  an 
easy  prey  for  the  destroyer.  Not  so  with  this  George 
Burroughs,  as  we  judge  by  the  inward  light  which  glows 
through  his  dark  countenance,  and,  we  might  almost 
say,  glorifies  his  figure,  in  spite  of  the  soil  and  haggard- 
ness  of  long  imprisonment,  —  in  spite  of  the  heavy 
shadow  that  must  fall  on  him,  while  death  is  walking 
by  his  side.  What  bribe  could  Satan  offer,  rich  enough 
to  tempt  and  overcome  this  man  ?  Alas  !  it  may  have 
been  in  the  very  strength  of  his  high  and  searcliing 
intellect,  that  the  Tempter  found  the  weakness  which 
betrayed  him.  He  yearned  for  knowledge ;  he  went 
groping  onward  into  a  world  of  mystery ;  at  first,  as  the 
witnesses  have  sworn,  lie  summoned  up  the  ghosts  of  liis 
two  dead  wives,  and  talked  with  them  of  matters  beyond 
the  grave;  and,  when  their  responses  failed  to  satisfy  the 


MAIN    STREET.  S9 

intense  and  sinful  craving  of  his  spirit,  be  called  on 
Satan,  and  was  heard.  Yet — to  look  at  liim  —  uho, 
that  had  not  known  the  proof,  could  believe  him  guilly  'i 
Who  would  not  say,  while  we  see  him  offering  comfort 
4,0  the  weak  and  aged  partners  of  his  horrible  crime,  — 
while  we  hear  his  ejaculations  of  prayer,  that  seem  to 
bubble  up  out  of  the  depths  of  his  heart,  and  fly  heaven- 
ward, unawares,  —  while  we  behold  a  radiance  brighten- 
ing on  his  features  as  from  the  other  world,  AVhich  is  l)ut 
a  few  steps  off,  —  wlio  would  not  say,  that,  over  the 
dusty  track  of  the  Main  Street,  a  Christian  saint  is  now 
going  to  a  martyr's  death  ?  May  not  the  Arch-Ficiid 
have  been  too  subtle  for  the  court  and  jury,  and  betrayed 
them  —  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  the  wiiile  —  into  the 
awful  error  of  pouring  out  sanctified  blood  as  an  accept- 
able sacrifice  upon  God's  altar  ?  Ah  !  no  ;  for  listen  to 
wise  Cotton  Mather,  who,  as  he  sits  there  on  his  liorse, 
speaks  comfortably  to  the  perplexed  multitude,  and  tells 
them  that  all  has  been  religiously  and  justly  done,  and 
that  Satan's  power  shall  this  day  receive  its  death-blow 
in  New  England. 

Heaven  grant  it  be  so!  —  the  great  scholar  must  be 
right;  so  lead  the  poor  creatures  to  their  death!  Do 
you  see  that  group  of  children  and  half-grown  girls,  and, 
among  them,  an  old,  liag-like  Indian  woman,  Tituba  by 
name?  Those  are  the  Afflicted  Ones.  Behold,  at  this 
very  instant,  a  proof  of  Satan's  power  and  malice ! 
Mercy  Parris,  the  minister's  daughter,  has  been  smitten 
by  a  flash  of  Martha  Carrier's  eye,  and  falls  down  in 
the  street,  writhing  with  horrible  spasms  and  foaming  at 
the  mouth,  like  the  possessed  one  spoken  of  in  Scripture. 
Hurry  on  the  accursed  M^itches  to  the  gallows,  ere  they 
do  more  mischief! — ^ere  they  fling  out  their  Avithcrcd 
arms,    and   scatter   pestilence   by    handfuls    among   the 


90  MAIN    STREET. 

crowd  !  — ere,  as  their  parting  legac\',  tliey  cast  a  blight 
over  the  land,  so  that  henceforth  it  may  bear  no  fruit 
nor  blade  of  grass,  and  be  fit  for  nothing  but  a  sepulchre 
for  their  unhallowed  carcasses !  So,  on  they  go ;  and 
old  George  Jacobs  has  stumbled,  by  reason  of  his  in- 
firmity;  but  Goodman  Proctor  and  his  wife  lean  on  one 
another,  and  walk  at  a  reasonably  steady  pace,  consider- 
ing their  age.  Mr.  Burrouglis  seems  to  administer  coun- 
sel to  Martha  Carrier,  whose  face  and  mien,  methinks, 
are  milder  and  humbler  than  they  were.  Among  the 
multitude,  meanwhile,  there  is  horror,  fear,  and  distrust; 
and  friend  looks  askance  at  friend,  and  the  husband  at 
his  wife,  and  the  ^vife  at  him,  and  even  the  mother  at 
her  little  child ;  as  if,  in  every  creature  that  God  has 
made,  they  suspected  a  witch,  or  dreaded  an  accuser. 
Never,  never  again,  whether  in  this  or  any  other  shape, 
may  Universal  Madness  riot  in  the  Main  Street ! 

I  perceive  in  your  eyes,  my  indulgent  spectators,  the 
criticism  which  you  are  too  kind  to  utter.  These  scenes, 
you  think,  are  all  too  sombre.  So,  indeed,  they  are ; 
but  the  blame  must  rest  on  the  sombre  spirit  of  our 
forefathers,  who  wove  their  web  of  life  with  hardly  a 
single  thread  of  rose-color  or  gold,  and  not  on  me,  who 
have  a  tropic-love  of  sunshine,  and  would  gladly  gild  all 
the  world  with  it,  if  I  knew  where  to  find  so  much. 
That  you  may  believe  me,  I  will  exhibit  one  of  the  only 
class  of  scenes,  so  far  as  my  investigation  has  taught  me, 
in  which  our  ancestors  were  wont  to  steep  their  tough 
old  hearts  in  w^ine  and  strong  drink,  and  indulge  an  out- 
break of  grisly  jollity. 

Here  it  comes,  out  of  the  same  house  whence  "we  saw 
brave  Captain  Gardner  go  forth  to  the  wars.  What ! 
A  coffin,  borne  on  men's  shoulders,  and  six  aged  gentle- 
men as  pall-bearers,  and  a  long  train  of  mourners,  with 


MAIN    STREET.         *  91 

black  gloves  and  black  liat -bands,  and  everytliing  black, 
save  a  white  liandkeicliief  in  each  mourner's  hand,  to 
wipe  away  his  tears  withal.  Now,  my  kind  patrons, 
you  are  angry  witli  me.  You  were  bidden  to  a  bridal- 
dance,  and  find  yourselves  walking  in  a  funeral  proces- 
sion. Even  so;  but  look  back  through  all  tlie  social 
customs  of  New  England,  in  the  first  century  of  licr 
existence,  and  read  all  her  traits  of  character;  and  if 
you  find  one  occasion,  other  than  a  funeral  feast,  where 
jollity  was  sanctioned  by  universal  practice,  1  will  set 
tire  to  my  puppet-show  without  another  word.  These 
are  tlie  obserpues  of  old  Governor  Bradstreet,  the  patri- 
arch and  survivor  of  the  first  settlers,  who,  having  inter- 
married with  the  Widow  Gardner,  is  now  resting  from 
his  labors,  at  the  great  age  of  ninety-four.  The  wlii'e- 
bearded  corpse,  which  was  his  spirit's  earthly  garniture, 
now  lies  beneath  yonder  coffin-lid.  Many  a  cask  of  ale 
and  cider  is  on  tap,  and  many  a  draught  of  spiced  wine 
and  aqua-vitae  has  been  quafted.  Else  why  sliould  the 
bearers  stagger,  as  they  tremulously  uphold  the  coffin  ? 
—  and  the  aged  pall-bearers,  too,  as  they  strive  to  walk 
solemnly  beside  it  ?  —  and  wherefore  do  the  mourners 
tread  on  one  anotiier's  heels?  —  and  why,  if  we  nuiy  ask 
without  offence,  should  the  nose  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  TSoyes, 
through  which  he  has  just  been  delivering  the  funeral 
discourse,  glow  like  a  ruddy  coal  of  fire  ?  Well,  well, 
old  friends!  Pass  on,  with  your  burden  of  mortahly, 
and  lay  it  in  the  tomb  with  jolly  hearts.  People  sliould 
be  permitted  to  enjoy  themselves  in  their  own  fashion ; 
every  man  to  his  taste;  but  New  England  must  have 
been  a  dismal  abode  for  the  man  of  pleasure,  when  the 
only  boon-companion  was  Death  ! 

Under  cover  of  a  mist  that  has  settled  over  the  scene, 
a  few  years  flit  by,  and  cscnpe  our  notice.     As  the  atmos- 


92  .  MAIX    STREET. 

pliere  becomes  transparent,  we  perc3ive  a  decrepit  graud- 
sire,  hobbling  along  the  street.  Do  you  recognize  him  ? 
We  saw  him,  first,  as  the  baby  in  Goodwife  Massey's 
arms,  when  the  primeval  trees  were  flinging  their  shadow 
over  Roger  Conaut's  cabin;  we  have  seen  him,  as  the 
boy,  the  youth,  the  man,  bearing  his  humble  part  iu 
all  the  successive  scenes,  and  forming  the  index-figure 
whereby  to  note  the  age  of  his  coeval  town.  And  here 
he  is,  old  Goodman  Massey,  taking  his  last  walk,  —  often 
pausing,  —  often  leaning  over  his  stalf,  —  and  calling  to 
mind  whose  dwelling  stood  at  such  and  such  a  spot,  and 
whose  field  or  garden  occupied  the  site  of  those  more 
recent  houses.  He  can  render  a  reason  for  all  the  bends 
and  deviations  of  the  thoroughfare,  which,  in  its  flexible 
and  plastic  infancy,  was  made  to  swerve  aside  from  a 
straight  line,  iu  order  to  visit  every  settler's  door.  Tlie 
Main  Street  is  still  youthful ;  the  coeval  man  is  in  his 
latest  ag3.  Soon  he  will  be  gone,  a  patriarch  of  four- 
score, yet  shall  retain  a  sort  of  mfantine  life  in  our  local 
history,  as  the  first  town-born  child. 

Behold  here  a  change,  wrought  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  like  an  incident  in  a  tale  of  magic,  even  while  your 
observation  has  been  fixed  upon  the  scene.  The  Main 
Street  has  vanished  out  of  sight.  In  its  stead  appears  a 
wintry  waste  of  snow,  with  the  sun  just  peeping  over  it, 
cold  and  bright,  and  tingeing  the  white  expanse  with  the 
faintest  and  most  ethereal  rose-color.  This  is  the  Great 
Snow  of  1717,  famous  for  the  mountain-drifts  iu  which 
it  buried  the  whole  country.  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
street,  the  growth  of  which  we  have  noted  so  attentively, 
following  it  from  its  first  phase,  as  an  Indian  track,  until 
it  reached  the  dignity  of  sidewalks,  were  all  at  once 
obliterated,  and  resolved  into  a  drearier  pathlessness 
than  when  the  forest  covered  it.     The  gigantic  swells 


MAIN    STllEET.  93 

and  billoTvs  of  tlie  snow  liave  swept  over  eacli  man's 
metes  and  bounds,  and  anniliilated  all  the  visible  distinc- 
tions of  human  property.  So  that  now  the  traces  of 
former  times  and  hitherto  accomplished  deeds  being  done 
away,  mankind  should  be  at  liberty  to  enter  on  new 
paths,  and  guide  themselves  by  other  laws  than  hereto- 
fore; if,  indeed,  the  race  be  not  extinct,  and  it  be  worth 
our  while  to  go  on  with  the  march  of  life,  over  the  cold 
and  desolate  expanse  that  lies  before  us.  It  may  be, 
however,  that  matters  are  not  so  desperate  as  they  ap- 
pear. That  vast  icicle,  glittering  so  cheerlessly  in  the 
sunshine,  must  be  the  spire  of  the  meeting-house,  in- 
crusted  with  frozen  sleet.  Those  great  heaps,  too,  Avhieh 
we  mistook  for  drifts,  are  houses,  buried  up  to  their 
eaves,  and  with  their  peaked  roofs  rounded  by  the  depth 
of  snow  upon  fhem.  There,  now,  comes  a  gush  of  smoke 
from  what  I  judge  to  he  the  chimney  of  the  Ship  Tavern  ; 
—  and  another — another  —  and  another — from  the  chim- 
neys of  other  dwellings,  where  fireside  comfort,  domestic 
peace,  the  sports  of  children,  and  the  quietude  of  age 
are  living  yet,  in  spite  of  the  frozen  crust  above  them. 

But  it  is  time  to  change  the  scene.  Its  dreary  monot- 
ony shall  not  test  your  fortitude  like  one  of  our  actual 
New  England  winters,  which  leaves  so  large  a  blank  — 
so  melancholy  a  death-spot  —  in  lives  so  brief  that  they 
ought  to  be  all  summer-time.  Here,  at  least,  I  may 
claim  to  be  ruler  of  the  seasons.  One  turn  of  the  crank 
shall  melt  away  the  snow  from  the  Main  Street,  and  show 
the  trees  in  their  full  foliage,  the  rose-bushes  in  bloom, 
and  a  border  of  green  grass  along  the  sidewalk.  There  ! 
But  what !  How  !  The  scene  will  not  move,  A  wire  is 
broken.  The  street  continues  buried  beneath  the  snoAv, 
and  the  fate  of  Hcrculaneum  and  Pompeii  has  its  ])arallel 
in  this  catastrophe. 


94  MAIN    STREET. 

Alas  !  my  kind  and  gentle  audience,  you  know  not  the 
extent  of  your  niisforiune.  The  scenes  to  come  were  far 
better  than  the  past.  The  street  itself  would  have  beeu 
more  worthy  of  pictorial  exhibition;  the  deeds  of  its 
inhabitants  not  less  so.  And  how  would  your  interest 
have  deepened,  as,  passing  out  of  the  cold  shadow  of 
antiquity,  iu  my  long  and  weai-y  course,  I  should  arrive 
withiu  the  limits  of  man's  memory,  and,  leading  you  at 
last  mto  the  sunshine  of  the  present,  should  give  a  reflex 
of  the  very  life  that  is  flitting  past  us  !  Your  owu  beauty, 
my  tair  townswomeu,  would  have  beamed  upon  you,  out 
of  my  scene.  Not  a  gentleman  that  walks  the  street  but 
should  have  beheld  his  own  face  and  figure,  his  gait,  the 
peculiar  swing  of  his  arm,  and  the  coat  that  he  put  on 
yesterday.  Then,  too,  —  and  it  is  what  I  chiefly  regret, 
—  I  had  expended  a  vast  deal  of  light  and  brilliancy  on 
a  representation  of  the  street  in  its  whole  length,  from 
ButFum's  Corner  downward,  on  the  night  of  the  grand 
illumination  for  General  Taylor's  triumph.  Lastly,  I 
should  have  given  the  crank  one  other  turn,  and  have 
brought  out  the  future,  showing  you  who  shall  walk  the 
Main  Street  to-morrow,  and,  perchance,  whose  funeral 
shall  pass  through  it  ! 

But  these,  like  most  other  human  purposes,  lie  unac- 
complished ;  and  I  have  only  further  to  say,  that  any 
lady  or  gentlemen  who  may  feel  dissatisfied  with  the 
evening's  entertainment  shall  receive  back  the  admission 
fee  at  the  door. 

"  Then  give  me  mine,"  cries  the  critic,  stretching  out 
his  palm.  "  I  said  that  your  exhibition  would  prove  a 
humbug,  and  so  it  has  turned  out.  So,  hand  over  my 
quarter !  " 


ETHAN   BRAND: 

A  CHAPTER  FROM  AN  ABORTIVE  ROMANCE. 


AKTRAM  the  lime-burner,  a  rougb,  lieavy-look- 
iiig  mail,  begrimed  with  charcoal,  sat  watching 
iiis  kihi,  at  iiighttall,  while  his  little  son  played 
at  building  houses  with  the  scattered  fragments  of  mar- 
ble, when,  on  the  hillside  below  them,  they  heard  a  ro;ir 
of  laughter,  not  mirthful,  but  slow,  and  even  solemn,  like 
a  wind  shaking  the  boughs  of  the  forest. 

"  Father,  what  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  little  boy,  leaving 
his  play,  and  pressing  betwixt  his  father's  knees. 

"  O,  some  drunken  man,  I  suppose,"  answered  Ihe 
lime-burner;  "  some  merry  feiloW  from  the  bar-room  in 
the  village,  who  dared  not  laugh  loud  enough  within 
doors  lest  he  should  blow  the  roof  of  the  house  off.  So 
here  he  is,  shaking  his  jolly  sides  at  the  foot  of  Grav- 
lock." 

"  But,  father,"  said  the  child,  more  sensitive  than  the 
obtuse,  middle-aged  clown,  "  he  does  not  laugh  like  a 
man  that  is  glad.     So  the  noise  frightens  me  !  " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  child  !  "  cried  his  father,  gruflly. 
"  You  will  never  make  a  man,  I  do  believe  ;  there  is  too 
much  of  your  mother  in  you.  I  have  known  the  rustling 
of  a  leaf  startle  you.  Hark  !  Here  comes  the  merry  fel- 
low now.     You  shall  see  that  there  is  no  harm  in  him." 


D6  ETHAN  BKAND. 

Eartram  and  Lis  little  son,  while  they  were  talking 
thus,  sat  watching  the  same  lime-kiln  that  had  been  the 
scene  of  Ethan  Brand's  solitary  and  meditative  life, 
before  he  began  his  searcli  for  the  Unpardonable  Sin. 
Many  years,  as  we  have  seen,  had  now  elapsed,  since 
that  portentous  night  when  the  Idea  was  first  developed. 
The  kiln,  however,  on  the  mountain-side,  stood  unim- 
paired, and  was  in  nothing  changed  siuce  he  had  thrown 
his  dark  thoughts  into  the  intense  glow  of  its  furnace, 
and  melted  them,  as  it  were,  into  the  one  thought  that 
took  possession  of  his  life.  It  was  a  rude,  round,  tower- 
like  structure,  about  twenty  feet  high,  heavily  built  of 
rougii  stones,  and  with  a  hillock  of  earth  heaped  about 
the  larger  part  of  its  circumference ;  so  that  the  blocks 
aud  fragments  of  marble  might  be  drawn  by  cart-loads, 
and  thrown  in  at  the  top.  There  was  an  opening  at  the 
bottom  of  the  tower,  like  an  oven-mouth,  but  large 
enough  to  admit  a  man  in  a  stooping  posture,  and  pro- 
vided with  a  massive  iron  door.  With  the  smoke  and 
jets  of  flame  issuing  from  the  chinks  and  crevices  of  this 
door,  which  seemed  to  give  admittance  into  the  hillside, 
it  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  the  private  entrance  to 
the  infernal  regions,  which  the  shepherds  of  the  Delecta- 
ble Mountains  were  accustomed  to  show  to  pilgrims. 

There  are  many  such  lime-kilns  in  that  tract  of  coun- 
try, for  the  purpose  of  burning  the  white  marble  which 
composes  a  large  part  of  the  substance  of  the  hills. 
Some  of  them,  buUt  years  ago,  and  long  deserted,  with 
weeds  growing  iu  the  vacant  round  of  the  interior,  wliich 
is  open  to  the  sky,  and  grass  and  wild-flowers  rooting 
themselves  into  the  chinks  of  the  stones,  look  already 
like  relics  of  antiquity,  and  may  yet  be  overspread  witli 
the  lichens  of  centuries  to  come.  Others,  where  the 
lime-burner    still    feeds    his   daily   and    night-long   fire. 


ETHAN    BRAND.  97 

afford  points  of  interest  to  the  wanderer  among  tlie  hills, 
who  seats  himself  on  a  log  of  wood  or  a  fragment  of 
marble,  to  liold  a  chat  with  the  solitary  man.  It  is  a 
lonesome,  and,  when  the  character  is  inclined  to  thought, 
may  be  an  intensely  thoughtful  occupation  ;  as  it  proved 
in  the  case  of  Ethan  Brand,  who  had  mused  to  such 
strange  purpose,  in  days  gone  by,  while  the  lire  in  this 
very  kiln  was  burning. 

The  man  who  now  watched  the  fire  was  of  a  different 
order,  and  troubled  himself  with  no  thoughts  save  the 
very  few  that  were  requisite  to  his  business.  At  frequent 
intervals,  he  flung  back  the  clashing  weight  of  the  iron 
door,  and,  turning  his  face  from  the  insufferable  glare, 
thrust  in  huge  logs  of  oak,  or  stirred  the  immense  brands 
with  a  long  j)olc.  AVithin  the  furnace  were  seen  the 
curling  and  riotous  flames,  and  the  burning  nuirblc, 
almost  molten  with  the  intensity  of  heat ;  while  without, 
the  reflection  of  the  fire  quivered  on  the  dark  intricacy 
of  the  surrounding  forest,  and  showed  in  the  foreground 
a  bright  and  ruddy  little  picture  of  the  hut,  the  spring 
beside  its  door,  the  athletic  and  coal-begrimed  figure  of 
the  lime-burner,  and  the  half-frightened  child,  shrinking 
into  the  protection  of  his  father's  shadow.  And  when 
again  the  iron  door  was  closed,  then  reaj)|)earcd  the  ten- 
der light  of  the  half-full  moon,  which  vainly  strove  to 
trace  out  the  indistinct  shapes  of  the  neighboring  moun- 
tains; and,  in  the  upper  sky,  there  was  a  flitting  con- 
gregation of  clouds,  still  faintly  tinged  with  the  rosy 
sunset,  though  thus  far  down  into  the  valley  the  sunshine 
had  vanished  long  and  long  ago. 

The  little  boy  now  crept  still  closer  to  his  father,  as 
footsteps  were  heard  ascending  the  hillside,  and  a  huuu'ai 
form  thrust  aside  the  bushes  that  clustered  beneath  the 
trees. 

5  G 


98  ETHAN    BRAND. 

"  Halloo  I  who  is  it  '■  "  cried  the  hme-buruer,  vexed 
at  his  son's  timidity,  yet  half  infected  by  it.  "Come 
forward,  and  show  yourself,  like  a  man,  or  I  '11  fling  this 
chunk  of  marble  at  your  head!  " 

"  You  offer  me  a  rough  welcome,"  said  a  gloomy 
voice,  as  the  unknown  man  drew  nigh.  "  Yet  I  neither 
claim  nor  desire  a  kinder  one,  even  at  my  own  fireside." 

To  obtain  a  distincter  view,  Bartram  threw  open  the 
iron  door  of  the  kiln,  whence  immediately  issued  a  gush 
of  fierce  light,  that  smote  full  upon  the  stranger's  face 
and  figure.  To  a  careless  eye  there  appeared  nothing 
very  remarkable  in  his  aspect,  which  was  that  of  a  man 
in  a  coarse,  brown,  countrj-made  suit  of  clothes,  tall  and 
thin,  with  the  staff  and  heavy  shoes  of  a  wayfarer.  As 
he  advanced,  he  fixed  his  eyes  —  whichwere  very  bright 
—  intently  upon  the  brightness  of  the  furnace,  as  if  he 
beheld,  or  expected  to  behold,  some  object  worthy  of 
note  within  it. 

"Good  evening,  stranger,"  said  the  lime-burner; 
"whence  come  you,  so  late  in  the  day?" 

"I  come  from  my  search,"  answered  the  wayfarer; 
"for,  at  last,  it  is  finished." 

"Drunk  !  — or  crazy  !  "  mattered  Bartram  to  himsslf. 
"I  shall  have  trouble  with  the  fellow.  The  sooner  I 
drive  him  away,  the  better." 

The  little  boy,  all  in  a  tremble,  whispered  to  liis  fath3r, 
and  begged  him  to  shut  the  door  of  the  kiln,  so  that 
there  might  not  be  so  much  light;  for  that  there  was 
something  in  the  man's  face  which  he  was  afraid  to  look 
at,  yet  could  not  look  away  from.  And,  indeed,  even 
the  lime-burner's  dull  and  torpid  sense  began  to  be  im- 
])ressed  by  an  indescribable  something  in  that  thin, 
rugged,  thoughtful  visage,  witli  the  grizzled  hair  hang- 
ing wildly  abjut  it,  and  those  deeply  sunken  eyes,  which 


ETHAN    BllAND.  99 

gleamed  like  fires  witliiu  the  entrance  of  a  mysterious 
cavern.  But,  as  he  closed  the  door,  the  stranger  turned 
towards  him,  and  spoke  in  a  quiet,  familiar  way,  that 
made  Bartram  feel  as  if  he  were  a  sane  and  sensible  man, 
after  all. 

"  Your  task  draws  to  an  end,  I  sec,"  said  he.  "This 
marble  has  already  been  burning  three  days.  A  few 
hours  more  will  convert  the  stone  to  lime." 

"  Why,  who  are  you  ?  "  exclaimed  the  lime-burner. 
"  You  seem  as  well  acquainted  wilh  my  business  as  1  am 
myself." 

"  And  well  I  may  be,"  said  the  stranger;  "  for  I  fol- 
lowed the  same  craft  many  a  long  year,  and  here,  too, 
on  this  very  spot.  But  you  are  a  new-comer  in  these 
parts.     Did  you  never  hear  of  Ethan  Brand  ?  " 

"The  man  that  went  in  search  of- the  Unpardonable 
Sin  ?  "  asked  Bartram,  with  a  laugli. 

"The  same,"  answered  the  stranger.  "He  has  found 
what  he  souglit,  and  therefore  he  comes  back  again."" 

"  Wliat !  then  you  are  Ethan  Brand  himself':'"  cried 
the  lime-burner,  in  amazement.  "  I  am  a  new-comer 
here,  as  you  say,  and  they  call  it  eigliteen  years  since 
you  left  the  foot  of  Graylock.  But,  1  can  tell  you,  the 
good  folks  still  talk  about  Ellian  Brand,  iu  the  village 
yonder,  and  what  a  strange  errand  took  liim  away  from 
his  iinie-kiln.  Well,  and  so  you  have  found  the  Unpar- 
donable Sin  ?  " 

"Even  so  !  "  said  the  stranger,  calmly. 

"If  the  question  is  a  fair  one,"  proceeded  Bartram, 
"  where  might  it  be  ?  " 

Ethan  Brand  laid  his  finger  on  his  own  heart. 

"  Here  !  "  replied  he. 

And  then,  without  mirth  in  his  countenance,  but  as  if 
moved   by   an   involuntary    recognition   of    the    inlinile 


100  ETHAN    BRAND. 

absurdity  of  seeking  tliroiigliout  the  world  for  what  was 
the  closest  of  all  things  to  himself,  and  looking  into  every 
lieart,  save  his  own,  for  what  was  hidden  in  no  other 
breast,  he  broke  into  a  laugh  of  scorn.  It  was  the  same 
slow,  heavy  laugli,  that  had  almost  appalled  the  lime- 
burner  when  it  heralded  the  wayfarer's  approach. 

The  solitary  mountain-side  was  made  dismal  by  it. 
Laughter,  when  out  of  place,  mistimed,  or  bursting  forth 
from  a  disordered  state  of  feeling,  may  be  the  most  terri- 
ble modulation  of  the  human  voice.  The  laughter  of  one 
asleep,  even  if  it  be  a  little  child,  —the  madman's  laugh, 
—  the  wild,  screaming  laugh  of  a  born  idiot,  —  are  sounds 
that  we  sometimes  tremble  to  hear,  and  would  always 
willingly  forget.  Poets  have  imagined  uo  utterance  of 
fiends  or  hobgoblins  so  fearfully  appropriate  as  a  laugh. 
And  even  the  obtuse  lime-burner  felt  his  nerves  shaken, 
as  this  strange  man  looked  inward  at  his  own  heart,  and 
burst  into  laughter  that  rolled  away  into  the  niglit,  and 
was  indistinctly  reverberated  among  the  hills. 

"  Joe,"  said  he  to  his  little  son,  "  scamper  down  to 
the  tavern  in  the  village,  and  tell  the  jolly  fellows  there 
that  Ethan  Brand  has  come  back,  and  that  he  has  found 
the  Unpardonable  Sin  !  " 

The  boy  darted  away  on  his  errand,  to  which  Ethan 
Brand  made  no  objection,  nor  seemed  hardly  to  notice  it. 
He  sat  on  a  log  of  wood,  looking  steadfastly  at  the  iron 
door  of  the  kiln.  When  the  child  was  out  of  sight,  and 
liis  swift,  and  light  footsteps  ceased  to  be  heard  treading 
iirst  on  the  fallen  leaves  and  then  on  the  rocky  mountain- 
path,  the  lime-burner  began  to  regret  his  departure.  He 
felt  that  the  little  fellow's  presence  had  been  a  barrier 
between  his  guest  and  himself,  and  that  he  must  now 
deal,  heart  to  heart,  with  a  man  who,  on  his  own  con- 
fession, had  committed  the   one   onlv  crime  for  which 


ETHAN    BRAND.  101 

Heaven  could  afford  no  mercy.  That  crime,  in  its  indis- 
tinct blackness,  seemed  to  overshadow  him.  The  lime- 
burner's  own  sins  rose  up  within  iiim,  and  made  his 
memory  riotous  with  a  throng  of  evil  shapes  that  asserted 
their  kindred  with  the  Master  Sin,  whatever  it  might  be, 
which  it  was  within  the  scope  of  man's  corrupted  nature 
to  conceive  and  cherish.  They  were  all  of  one  family  ; 
they  went  to  and  fro  between  his  breast  and  Ethan 
Brand's,  and  carried  dark  greetings  from  one  to  the  other. 

Then  Bartram  remembered  the  stories  which  had 
grown  traditionary  in  reference  to  this  strange  man,  who 
had  come  upon  him  like  a  shadow  of  the  night,  and  was 
makuig  himself  at  home  in  his  old  place,  after  so  long 
absence  that  the  dead  people,  dead  and  buried  for  years, 
would  have  had  more  right  to  be  at  home,  in  any  familiar 
spot,  than  he.  Ethan  Brand,  it  was  said,  had  conversed 
with  Satan  himself  in  tlie  lurid  blaze  of  this  very  kiln. 
The  legend  had  been  matter  of  mirth  heretofore,  but 
looked  grisly  now.  According  to  this  tale,  before  Ethan 
Brand  departed  on  his  search,  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  evoke  a  fiend  from  the  liot  furnace  of  the  lime-kiln, 
night  after  night,  in  order  to  confer  with  him  about  the 
Unpardonable  Sin ;  the  man  and  the  fiend  each  laboring 
to  frame  the  image  of  some  mode  of  guilt  which  could 
neither  be  atoned  for  nor  forgiven.  And,  with  the  first 
gleam  of  light  upon  the  mountain-top,  the  fiend  crept  in 
at  the  iron  door,  there  to  abide  the  intcnsest  element  of 
fire,  until  again  summoned  forth  to  share  in  the  dreadful 
task  of  extending  nuin's  possible  guilt  beyond  the  scope 
of  Heaven's  else  infinite  merey. 

While  the  lime-burner  was  struggUng  with  the  horror 
of  these  thoughts,  Ethan  Brand  rose  from  the  log,  and 
flung  open  the  door  of  the  kiln.  The  action  was  in  such 
accordance    with   the   idea   in  Burtram's  mind,  that  he 


102  ETIIAX    BRAND. 

almost  expected  to  see  the  Evil  One  issue  forth,  red-hot 
from  the  raging  furnace. 

"  Hold  !  hold  !  "  cried  he,  with  a  tremulous  attempt  to 
laugh ;  for  he  was  ashamed  of  his  fears,  although  tliey 
overmastered  him.  "Don't,  for  mercy's  sake,  bring  out 
your  Devil  now  !  " 

"Man!"  sternly  replied  Ethan  Brand,  "  wliat  need 
have  I  of  the  Devil  ?  I  have  left  him  behind  me,  on  my. 
track.  It  is  with  such  half-way  sinners  as  you  that  he 
busies  himself.  Fear  not,  because  I  open  the  door.  I 
do  but  act  by  old  custom,  and  am  going  to  trim  your 
tire,  like  a  lime-burner,  as  I  was  once." 

He  stirred  the  vast  coals,  thrust  in  more  wood,  and 
bent  forward  to  gaze  into  the  hollow  prison-house  of  tlie 
fire,  regardless  of  the  fierce  glow  that  reddened  upon  his 
face.  The  lime-burner  sat  watching  him,  and  half  sus- 
pected his  strange  guest  of  a  purpose,  if  not  to  evoke 
a  fiend,  at  least  to  plunge  bodily  into  the  flames,  and 
thus  vanish  from  the  sight  of  man.  Etlian  Brand, 
however,  drew  quietlv  back,  and  closed  the  door  of  the 
kiln. 

"  I  have  looked,"  said  he,  "  into  many  a  human  heart 
that  was  seven  times  hotter  wiUi  sinful  passions  than 
yonder  furnace  is  with  fire.  But  I  found  not  there  what 
I  sought.     No,  not  the  Unpardonable  Sin  !  " 

"  AV'hat  is  the  Unpardonable  Sin  ?  "  asked  the  lime- 
burner  ;  and  then  he  shrank  farther  from  his  companion, 
trembluig  lest  his  question  should  be  answered. 

"  It  is  a  sin  that  grew  within  my  own  breast,"  replied 
Ethan  Brand,  standing  erect,  with  a  pride  that  distin- 
guishes all  enthusiasts  of  his  stamp.  "A  sin  that  grew 
nowhere  else  !  The  sin  of  an  intellect  that  triumphed 
over  the  sense  of  brotherhood  witli  man  and  reverence 
for  God,  and  sacrificed    everythhig  to  its  own  mighty 


ETIIAX    BRAND.  103 

claims !  The  only  sin  that  deserves  a  recompense  of 
innnortal  agony !  Freely,  Mere  it  to  do  again,  wonld  I 
incur  the  guilt.  Unshrinkingly  I  accept  the  retribu- 
tion !  " 

"The  man's  head  is  turned,"  muttered  the  lime-bunier 
to  himself.  *'  He  may  be  a  sinner,  like  the  rest  of  us,  — 
nothing  more  likely,  —  but,  I  '11  be  sworn,  he  is  a  mad- 
man too." 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  uncomfortable  at  his  situation, 
alone  with  Ethan  Brand  on  the  wild  mountain-side, 
and  was  right  glad  to  hear  the  rough  murmur  of  tongues, 
and  the  footsteps  of  what  seemed  a  pretty  numerous 
party,  stumbling  over  the  stones  and  rustling  tlirough 
tiie  underbrush.  Soon  appeared  the  whole  lazy  ngi- 
nient  that  was  wont  to  infest  the  village  tavern,  com- 
prehending three  or  four  individuals  who  had  drunk  ilip 
beside  the  bar-room  fire  througli  all  the  winters,  and 
smoked  their  pipes  beneath  the  stoop  through  all  the 
sunmiers,  since  Ethan  Brand's  departure.  Laughing 
boisterously,  and  mingling  all  their  voices  together  in 
unceremonious  talk,  thoy  now  burst  into  the  moonshine 
and  narrow  streaks  of  firelight  that  illuminated  the  open 
space  before  the  lime-kiln.  Bart  ram  set  the  door  ajar 
again,  flooding  the  spot  with  light,  that  the  whole  com- 
pany might  get  a  fair  view  of  Elhan  Brand,  and  he  of 
thorn. 

Tliere,  among  other  old  acquaintances,  was  a  once 
ubiquitous  man,  now  almost  extinct,  but  whom  we  were 
formerly  sure  to  encounter  at  the  hotel  of  every  thriving 
village  throughout  the  country.  It  was  the  stage-agent. 
The  present  specimen  of  the  genus  was  a  wilted  and 
smoke-dried  man,  wrinkled  and  red-nosed,  in  a  smartly 
cut,  brown,  bobtailed  coat,  with  brass  buttons,  who,  for 
a  length  of  time  unknown,  had  kept  his  desk  and  corner 


104  ETHAN  BRAXD. 

in  the  bar-room,  and  was  still  puffing  what  seemed  to  be 
the  same  cigar  that  he  had  lighted  twenty  years  before. 
He  had  great  fame  as  a  dry  joker,  though,  perhaps,  less 
on  account  of  any  intrinsic  humor  than  from  a  certain 
flavor  of  brandy-toddy  and  tobacco-smoke,  which  im- 
pregnated all  his  ideas  and  expressions,  as  well  as  his 
person.  Another  well-remembered  though  strangely  al- 
tered face  was  that  of  Lawyer  Giles,  as  people  still  called 
bim  in  courtesy ;  an  elderly  ragamuffin,  in  his  soiled  shirt- 
sleeves and  tow-cloth  trousers.  This  poor  fellow  had 
been  an  attorney,  in  what  he  called  his  better  days,  a 
sharp  practitioner,  and  in  great  vogue  among  the  village 
Htigants ;  but  flip,  and  sling,  and  toddy,  and  cocktails, 
imbibed  at  all  hours,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  had 
caused  him  to  slide  from  intellectual  to  various  kinds  and 
degrees  of  bodily  la])or,  till,  at  last,  to  adopt  his  own 
phrase,  he  slid  into  a  soap- vat.  In  other  words,  Giles 
was  now  a  soap-boiler,  in  a  small  way.  He  had  come  to 
be  but  the  fragment  of  a  human  being,  a  part  of  one  foot 
having  been  chopped  off  by  an  axe,  and  an  entire  hand 
torn  away  by  the  devilish  grip  of  a  steam-engine.  Yet, 
though  the  corporeal  hand  was  gone,  a  spiritual  member 
remained;  for,  stretching  forth  the  stump,  Giles  stead- 
fastly averred  that  he  felt  an  invisible  thumb  and  fingers 
with  as  vivid  a  sensation  as  before  the  real  ones  were  am- 
putated. A  maimed  and  miserable  wretch  he  was ;  but 
one,  nevertheless,  whom  the  world  could  not  trample  ou, 
and  had  no  right  to  scorn,  either  in  this  or  any  previous 
stage  of  his  misfortunes,  since  he  had  still  kept  up  the 
courage  and  spirit  of  a  man,  asked  nothing  in  charity, 
and  with  his  one  hand  —  and  that  the  left  one  —  fought 
a  stern  battle  against  want  and  hostile  circumstances. 

Among  the  throng,  too,  came  another  personage,  who, 
Mith  certain  points  of  similarity  to  Lawyer  Giles,  had 


ETHAN    BRAXD.  105 

many  more  of  difference.  It  was  ihe  villaf^e  doctor;  a 
man  of  some  fii'tv  years,  wliom,  at  an  earlier  period  of 
liis  life,  Ave  introduced  as  payinj^  a  professional  visit  to 
Ethan  Brand  during  the  lattcr's  supposed,  insanity.  He 
was  now  a  purple-visaged,  rude,  and  brutal,  yet  half- 
f^cntlemanly  figure,  with  something  wild,  ruined,  and 
desperate  in  his  talk,  and  in  all  the  details  of  his  gesture 
and  manners.  Brandy  possessed  this  man  like  an  evil 
spirit,  and  made  him  as  surly  and  savage  as  a  wild  beast, 
and  as  miserable  as  a  lost  suul ;  but  there  was  supposed 
to  be  in  him  such  Avondcrful  skill,  such  native  gifts  of 
healing,  beyond  any  which  medical  science  could  impart, 
that  society  caught  hold  of  him,  and  would  not  let  him 
sink  out  of  its  reach.  So,  swaying  to  and  fro  upon  his 
horse,  and  grumbling  thick  accents  at  the  bedside,  he 
visited  all  the  sick-chambers  for  miles  about  among  the 
mountain  towns,  and  sometimes  raised  a  dying  man,  as  it 
were,  by  miracle,  or  quite  as  often,  no  doubt,  sent  his 
patient  to  a  grave  that  was  dug  many  a  year  too  soon. 
The  doctor  had  an  everlasting  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and,  as 
somebody  said,  in  allusion  to  his  habit  of  swearing,  it  was 
always  alight  with  hcll-firc. 

These  three  wortiiics  pressed  forward,  and  greeted 
Ethan  Brand  each  after  his  own  fashion,  earnestly  in- 
viting him  to  partake  of  the  contents  of  a  certain  black 
bottle,  in  which,  as  they  averred,  he  would  find  some- 
thing far  better  worth  seeking  for  than  the  Unpardona- 
ble Sin.  No  mind,  whicli  has  wrought  itself  by  intense 
and  solitary  meditation  into  a  high  state  of  enthusiasm, 
can  endure  the  kind  of  contact  with  low  and  vulgar 
modes  of  thought  and  feeling  to  which  Ethan  Brand  was 
now  subjected.  It  made  him  doubt  —  and,  strange  to 
say,  it  was  a  painful  doubt  —  whether  he  had  indeed 
found  the  Unpardonable  Sin,  and  found  it  within  him- 
5* 


106  ETHAN    BRAND. 

self.  The  vrhole  question  on  wliicli  lie  had  exhausted 
life,  and  more  than  life,  loolced  like  a  delusion. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  ye  brute  beasts,  that 
have  made  yourselves  so,  shrivelling  up  your  souls  with 
fiery  liquors  !  I  have  done  with  you.  Years  and  years 
ago,  I  groped  into  your  hearts,  and  found  nothing  there 
for  my  purpose.     Get  ye  gone  !  " 

"  Why,  you  uncivil  scoundrel,"  cried  the  fierce  doctor, 
"is  that  tlie  way  you  respond  to  the  kindness  of  your 
best  friends  ?  Then  let  me  tell  you  the  truth.  You 
have  no  more  found  the  Unpardonable  Sin  than  yonder 
boy  Joe  has.  You  are  but  a  crazy  fellow,  —  I  told  you 
so  twenty  years  ago, — neither  better  nor  worse  tlian  a 
crazy  fellow,  and  the  fit  companion  of  old  Humphrey, 
here !  " 

He  pointed  to  an  old  man,  shabbily  dressed,  with  long 
white  hair,  tliin  visage,  and  unsteady  eyes.  For  some 
years  past  this  aged  person  had  been  wandering  about 
among  the  hills,  inquiring  of  all  travellers  whom  he  met 
for  his  daughter.  The  girl,  it  seemed,  had  gone  off  with 
a  company  of  circus-performers  ;  and  occasionally  tid- 
ings of  her  came  to  the  village,  and  fine  stories  were 
told  of  her  glittering  appearance  as  she  rode  on  horse- 
back in  the  ring,  or  performed  marvellous  feats  on  the 
tight-rope. 

The  white-haired  father  now  approached  Ethan  Brand, 
and  gazed  unsteadily  into  his  faca. 

"  They  tell  me  you  have  been  all  over  the  earth,"  said 
he,  wringing  his  hands  with  earnestness.  "  You  must 
have  seen  my  daughter,  for  she  makes  a  grand  figure  in 
the  world,  and  everybody  goes  to  see  her.  Did  she  send 
any  word  to  her  old  father,  or  say  when  she  was  coming 
back  ?  " 

Ethan  Brand's  eye  quailed   beneath   the   old   man's. 


ETHAN    BUAND.  107 

That  daughter,  from  wliom  he  so  earnestly  desired  a 
word  of  greeting,  was  the  Esther  of  our  tale,  the  very 
girl  whom,  with  such  cold  and  remorseless  purpose, 
Ethan  Brand  had  made  the  subject  of  a  psychological 
•experiment,  and  wasted,  absorbed,  and  pcrhnps  annihi- 
lated lier  soul,  ill  the  process. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  he,  turning  away  from  the  hoary 
wanderer ;  "  it  is  no  delusion.  There  is  an  Unpardon- 
able Sin  !  " 

While  these  things  M'cre  passing,  a  merry  scc^ne  was 
going  forward  in  tiie  area  of  cheerful  light,  beside  the 
spring  and  before  the  door  of  the  hut.  A  number  of  llie 
youth  of  the  village,  young  men  and  girls,  had  hurried 
up  tiie  hillside,  impelled  by  curiosity  to  see  Etiian  Brand, 
the  hero  of  so  many  a  legend  familiar  to  their  childhoc  d. 
Finding  nothing,  however,  very  remarkable  in  his  aspect, 

—  notfiing  but  a  sunburnt  wayfarer,  in  plain  garb  and 
dusty  shoes,  who  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  as  if  he  fan- 
cied pictures  among  the  coals,  —  these  young  peoj)le 
speedily  grew  tired  of  observing  him.  As  it  happened, 
there  was  other  amusement  at  hand.  An  old  German 
Jew,  travellhig  with  a  diorama  on  his  back,  was  passing 
down  the  mountain-road  towards  the  village  just  as  the 
party  turned  aside  from  it,  and,  in  hopes  of  eking  out 
the  profits  of  the  day,  the  showman  had  kept  them 
com))any  to  the  lime-kiln. 

"  Come,  old  Dutchman,"  cried  one  of  the  young  men, 
"let  us  see  your  pictures,  if  you  cau  swear  they  are 
worth  looking  at  !  " 

"  O  yes,  Captain,"  answered  the  Jew,  —  whether  as  a 
matter  of  courtesy  or  craft,  he  styled  everybody  Captain, 

—  "I  shall  show  you,  indeed,  some  verv  superb  ))ic- 
tures  ! "  "^ 

So,  placing  his  box  in  a  proper  position,  he  invited  the 


108  ETHAN    BRAND. 

young  men  and  girls  to  look  tlirougli  tlie  glass  orifices 
of  tlie  machine,  and  proceeded  to  exiiihit  a  series  of  the 
most  outrageous  scratcliiugs  and  daubings,  as  specimens 
of  the  fine  arts,  tiiat  ever  an  itinerant  showman  had  the 
face  to  impose  upon  his  circle  of  spectators.  Tlie  pic- 
tures were  worn  out,  moreover,  tattered,  full  of  cracks  and 
wa-inkles,  ding.y  with  tobacco-smoke,  and  otherwise  in  a 
most  pitiable  condition.  Some  jiurported  to  be  cities, 
public  edifices,  and  ruined  castles  in  •Europe ;  others 
represented  Napoleon's  battles  and  Nelson's  sea-figbts ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  these  would  be  seen  a  gigantic, 
brow^l,  hairy  hand,  —  which  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  the  Hand  of  Destiny,  though,  in  truth,  it  was  only 
the  showman's,  —  pointing  its  forefinger  to  various  scenes 
of  the  conflict,  while  its  owner  gave  historical  illustra- 
tions. When,  with  much  merriment  at  its  abominable 
deficiency  of  merit,  the  exhibition  was  concluded,  the 
German  bade  little  Joe  put  his  head  into  the  box. 
Viewed  through  the  magnifying-glasses,  the  boy's  round, 
rosy  visage  assumed  the  strangest  imaginable  aspect  of 
an  immense  Titanic  child,  the  mouth  grinning  broadly, 
and  the  eyes  and  every  other  feature  ovei-flowing  with 
fun  at  the  joke.  Suddenly,  however,  that  merry  face 
turned  pale,  and  its  expression  changed  to  horror,  for 
this  easily  impressed  and  excitable  child  had  become 
sensible  that  the  eye  of  Ethan  Brand  was  fixed  upon 
him  through  the  glass. 

"  You  make  the  little  man  to  be  afraid.  Captain,"  said 
the  German  Jew,  turning  up  the  dark  and  strong  out- 
line of  his  visage,  from  his  stooping  posture.  "  But 
look  again,  and,  by  chance,  I  shall  cause  you  to  see 
somewhat  that  is  very  fine,  upon  my  word  !  " 

Ethan  Brand  gazed  into  the  box  for  an  instant,  and 
then  starting  back,  looked  fixedly  at  the  German.    What 


ETHAN    BRAND.  109 

liad  he  seen  ?  Kotliing,  apparently  ;  for  a  curious  youth, 
who  liad  peeped  in  almost  at  the  same  moment,  beheld 
only  a  vaeant  spaee  of  canvas. 

"I  remember  you  now,"  muttered  Ethan  Brand  to  the 
showman. 

"Ah,  Captain,"  whispered  the  Jew  of  Nuremburg, 
with  a  dark  smile,  "  I  find  it  to  be  a  heavy  matter  in 
my  show-box, — this  Unpardonable  Sin!  By  my  faith, 
Captain,  it  has  wearied  my  shoulders,  this  long  day,  to 
carry  it  over  the  monntain." 

"Peace,"  answered  Ethan  Brand,  sternly,  "or  get 
thee  into  the  furnace  yonder!" 

The  Jew's  exhibition  had  scarcely  concluded,  when  a 
great,  elderly  dog  —  who  seemed  to  be  his  own  master, 
as  no  person  in  the  company  laid  claim  to  him  —  saw 
fit  to  render  himself  the  object  of  public  notice.  Hith- 
erto, he  had  showai  himself  a  very  quiet,  well-disposed 
old  dog,  going  round  from  one  to  another,  and,  by  way 
of  being  sociable,  ofTering  his  rough  head  to  be  patted  by 
any  kindly  hand  that  woidd  take  so  much  trouble.  But 
now,  all  of  a  sudden,  this  grave  and  venerable  rpiadru- 
ped,  of  his  own  mere  motion,  and  without  the  slightest 
suggestion  from  anybody  else,  began  to  run  round  after 
his  tail,  which,  to  heighten  the  absurdity  of  the  proceed- 
ing, was  a  great  deal  shorter  than  it  should  have  been. 
Never  was  seen  such  headlong  eagerness  in  pursuit  of 
an  object  that  could  not  possibly  be  attained  ;  never  was 
lieard  such  a  tremendous  outbreak  of  growling,  snarling, 
barking,  and  snapping,  — as  if  one  end  of  the  ridiculous 
brute's  body  were  at  deadly  and  most  unforgivable  en- 
mity with  the  other.  Faster  and  faster,  round  about 
went  the  cur;  and  faster  and  still  faster  fled  the  unap- 
proachable brevity  of  his  tail ;  and  louder  and  fiercer 
grew  his  yells  of  rage   and  animosity;   until,   utterly 


11-0  ETHAN    BRAND. 

exhausted,  and  as  far  from  tlie  goal  as  ever,  the  foolish 
old  dog  ceased  his  performance  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
begun  it.  The  next  moment  he  m-rs  as  mild,  quiet,  sen- 
sible, and  respectable  in  his  deportment,  as  when  he  first 
scraped  acquaintance  with  the  company. 

As  may  be  supposed,  the  exhibition  was  greeted  with 
universal  laughter,  clapping  of  hands,  and  shouts  of 
encore,  to  which  the  canine  performer  responded  by 
wagging  all  that  there  was  to  wag  of  his  tail,  but  ap- 
peared totally  unable  to  repeat  his  A^ery  successful  effort 
to  amuse  the  spectators. 

Meanwhile,  Ethan  Brand  had  resumed  his  seat  upon 
ths  log,  and  moved,  it  might  be,  by  a  perception  of  some 
remote  analogy  between  his  own  case  and  that  of  this 
self-pursuing  cur,  he  broke  into  the  awful  laugh,  whicii, 
more  than  any  other  token,  expressed  the  condition  of 
his  inward  being.  From  that  moment,  the  merriment 
of  the  party  was  at  an  end  ;  they  stood  aghast,  dreading 
lest  the  inauspicious  sound  should  be  reverberated  around 
the  horizon,  and  that  mountain  would  thunder  it  to 
mountain,  and  so  the  horror  be  prolonged  upon  their 
ears.  Then,  whispering  one  to  another  that  it  was 
late,  —  that  the  moon  was  almost  down,  —  that  the 
August  night  was  growing  chill, — they  hurried  home- 
wards, leaving  the  lime-burner  and  bttle  Joe  to  deal  as 
they  might  with  their  unwelcome  guest.  Save  for  these 
three  human  beings,  the  open  space  on  tlie  hillside  was 
a  solitude,  set  in  a  vast  gloom  of  forest.  Beyond  that 
darksome  verge,  the  firelight  glimmered  on  the  stately 
trunks  and  almost  black  foliage  of  pines,  intermixed  with 
the  lighter  verdure  of  sapling  oaks,  maples,  and  po])lars, 
while  here  and  there  lay  the  gigantic  corpses  of  dead 
trees,  decaying  on  the  leaf-strewn  soil.  And  it  seemed 
to  little  Joe  —  a  timorous  and  imaarinative  child.  —  that 


ETHAN    BTIAND.  Ill 

the  silent  forest  was  holding  its  breath,  until  some  fear- 
ful thing  should  happen. 

Etiian  Brand  thrust  more  wood  into  the  fire,  and 
closed  the  door  of  the  kiln ;  then  looking  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  lime-burner  and  his  son,  he  bade,  rather 
tlian  advised,  them  to  retire  to  rest. 

"For  myself,  1  cannot  sleep,"  said  he.  "  I  have  mat- 
ters that  it  concerns  me  to  meditate  upon.  I  will  watch 
the  fire,  as  I  used  to  do  in  the  old  time." 

"  And  call  the  Devil  out  of  the  furnace  to  keep  you 
company,  I  su))pose,"  muttered  Bartram,  who  had  been 
making  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  bhick  bottle 
above  mentioned.  "But  watch,  if  you  like,  and  call  as 
many  devils  as  you  like !  For  my  part,  I  shall  be  all 
the  better  for  a  snooze.     Come,  Joe  !  " 

As  the  boy  followed  his  father  into  the  hut,  he  looked 
back  at  the  wayfarer,  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes, 
for  his  tender  spirit  had  an  intuition  of  the  bleak  and 
terrible  loueUness  in  which  this  man  had  enveloped  him- 
self. 

When  they  had  gone,  Ethan  Brand  sat  listening  to 
the  crackling  of  the  kindled  wood,  and  looking  at  the 
little  spirts  of  fire  that  issued  through  the  chinks  of 
the  door.  These  trifles,  however,  once  so  familiar,  had 
but  the  slightest  hold  of  his  attention,  while  deep  within 
his  mind  he  was  reviewing  the  gradual  but  marvellous 
change  that  had  been  wrought  upon  him  by  the  search 
to  which  he  had  devoted  himself.  He  remembered  how 
the  night  dew  had  lallen  upon  him,  —  how  the  dark  forest 
had  whispered  to  him,  —  how  the  stars  had  gleamed  iij)oii 
him, — a  simple  and  loving  man,  watching  his  lire  in 
the  years  gone  by,  and  ever  musing  as  it  burned.  He 
remembered  with  what  tenderness,  with  what  love  and 
sympathy  for  mankind,  and  what  pity  for  humau  guilt 


11^  ETHAX    BRAND. 

and  woe,  he  bad  first  begun  to  contemplate  tbose  ideas 
which  afterwards  became  tlie  inspiration  of  his  life;  with 
what  reverence  he  had  then  looked  into  the  heart  of 
man,  viewing  it  as  a  temple  originally  divine,  and,  how- 
ever desecrated,  still  to  be  held  sacred  by  a  brother; 
with  what  awful  fear  he  had  deprecated  the  success  of 
his  pnrsuit,  and  prayed  that  the  Unpardonable  Sin  might 
never  be  revealed  to  him.  Tlien  ensued  that  vast  intel- 
lectual development,  wliich,  in  its  progress,  disturbed  the 
counterpoise  between  his  mind  and  heart.  The  Idea 
that  possessed  his  life  had  operated  as  a  means  of  edu- 
cation ;  it  had  gone  on  cultivating  his  powers  to  the 
highest  point  of  which  they  were  susceptible;  it  had 
raised  him  from  the  level  of  an  unlettered  laborer  to 
stand  on- a  star-lit  eminence,  whither  the  philosophers 
of  the  earth,  laden  witli  the  lore  of  universities,  might 
vainly  strive  to  clamber  after  him.  So  much  for  the 
intellect !  But  where  was  the  heart  ?  That,  indeed,  had 
withered, — had  contracted, — had  hardened,  —  had  per- 
ished !  It  had  ceased  to  partake  of  the  universal  throb. 
He  had  lost  his  hold  of  the  magnetic  chain  of  humanity. 
He  was  no  longer  a  brother-man,  opening  the  chambers 
or  the  dungeons  of  our  common  nature  by  the  key  of 
lioly  sympathy,  which  gave  him  a  right  to  share  in  all 
its  secrets ;  he  was  now  a  cold  observer,  looking  on  man- 
kind as  the  subject  of  his  experiment,  and,  at  length, 
converting  man  and  woman  to  be  his  puppets,  and  pull- 
ing the  Avires  that  moved  them  to  such  degrees  of  crime 
as  were  demandsd  for  his  study. 

Tlius  Ethan  Brand  became  a  fiend.  He  began  to  be 
so  from  the  moment  tliat  his  moral  nature  had  ceased  to 
keep  the  pace  of  improvement  with  liis  intellect.  And 
now,  as  his  highest  effort  and  inevitable  development,  — 
as  the  bright  and  gorgeous  flower,  and  rich,  delicious 


ETHAN    BRAND.  118 

fruit  of  his  life's  labor, — he  had  produced  the  Unpar- 
donable Sill ! 

"What  more  have  I  to  seek?  what  more  to  acliicve?" 
said  Ethan  Brand  to  himself.     "My  task  is  done,  and^ 
well  done !  " 

Starting  from  the  log  with  a  certain  alacrity  in  his 
gait  and  ascending  the  hillock  of  earth  that  was  raised 
against  the  stone  circumference  of  the  lime-kiln,  he  thus 
reached  the  top  of  the  structure.  It  was  a  space  of  per- 
haps ten  feet  across,  from  edge  to  edge,  presenting  a 
view  of  the  upper  surface  of  the  immense  mass  of  broken 
marble  with  which  the  kiln  was  heaped.  All  these  innu- 
merable blocks  and  fragments  of  marble  were  red-hot 
and  vividly  on  fire,  sending  up  great  spouts  of  blue 
flame,  which  quivered  aloft  and  danced  madly,  as  within 
a  magic  circle,  and  sank  and  rose  again,  with  continual 
and  multitudinous  activity.  As  the  lonely  man  bent 
forward  over  this  terrible  body  of  fire,. the  blasting  heat 
smote  up  against  his  person  with  a  breath  that,  it  miglit 
be  supposed,  would  have  scorched  and  shrivelled  him  up 
in  a  moment. 

Ethan  Brand  stood  erect,  and  raised  his  arms  on  higli. 
The  blue  flames  played  upon  his  face,  and  impailed  the 
wild  and  ghastly  light  which  alone  could  have  suited  its 
expression ;  it  was  that  of  a  fiend  on  the  verge  of  plung- 
ing into  his  gulf  of  intensest  torment. 

"0  Mother  Earth,"  cried  he,  "who  art  no  more  my 
Mother,  and  into  whose  bosom  this  frame  shall  never  be 
resolved !  O  mankind,  whose  brotherhood  1  have  cast 
off,  and  trampled  thy  great  heart  beneath  my  feet  !  0 
stars  of  heaven,  that  shone  on  me  of  old,  as  if  to  light 
me  onward  and  upward! — farewell  all,  and  forever. 
Come,  deadly  element  of  Fire, — henceforth  my  familiar 
friend !     Embrace  me,  as  I  do  thee  !  " 

u 


114  ETHAN    BllAXD. 

That  iiiglit  the  sound  of  a  fearful  peal  of  laughter 
rolled  heavily  througli  the  sleep  of  the  lime-burner  and 
his  little  son ;  dim  shapes  of  horror  and  anguish  haunted 
their  dreams,  and  seemed  still  present  in  the  rude  hovel, 
when  they  opened  their  eyes  to  the  daylight. 

"  Up,  boy,  up  !  "  cried  the  lime-burner,  staring  about 
him.  "Thank  Heaven,  the  night  is  gone,  at  last;  and 
rather  than  pass  sucli  another,  1  would  watch  my  lime, 
kiln,  wide  aMake,  for  a  twelvemoii|li.  This  Ethan  Brand, 
with  his  humbug  of  an  Unpardonable  Sin,  has  done  me 
uo  such  mighty  favor,  in  taking  my  place  ! " 

He  issued  from  the  hut,  followed  by  little  Joe,  who 
kept  fast  hold  of  his  father's  hand.  The  early  sunshine 
was  already  pouring  its  gold  upon  the  mountain-tops; 
and  though  the  valleys  were  still  in  shadow,  they  smiled 
cheerfully  in  the  promise  of  the  bright  day  that  was 
hastening  onward.  The  village,  comi)letely  shut  in  Ijy 
hills,  which  swelled  away  gently  about  it,  looked  as  if 
it  had  rested  peacefully  in  the  hollow  of  the  great  hand 
of  Providence.  Every  dwelling  was  distinctly  visible; 
tlie  little  spires  of  the  two  churches  pohited  upwards,  and 
cauglit  a  fore-glimmering  of  brightness  from  the  sun-gilt 
skies  upon  their  gilded  weathercocks.  Tiie  tavern  was 
astir,  and  the  figure  of  the  old,  smoke-dried  stage-agent, 
cigar  in  mouth,  was  seen  beneath  the  stoop.  Old  Gray- 
lock  was  glorified  witii  a  golden  cloud  upon  his  head. 
Scattered  likewise  over  the  breasts  of  the  surrounding 
mountains,  there  were  heaps  of  hoary  mist,  in  fantastic 
sliapes,  some  of  them  far  down  into  the  valley,  others 
Jiigh  up  towards  the  summits,  and  still  others,  of  the 
same  family  of  mist  or  cloud,  hovering  in  the  gold  radi- 
ance of  the  upper  atmosphere.  Stepping  from  one  to 
another  of  the  clouds  that  rested  on  the  hills,  and  thence 
to  the  loftier  brotherhood  that  sailed  in  air,  it  seenjed. 


ETHAN  BRAND.  115 

almost  as  if  a  mortal  man  might  thus  ascend  into  the 
heavenly  regions.  Earth  was  so  mingled  with  sky  that 
it  was  a  day-dream  to  look  at  it. 

To  suj)ply  that  cliarm  of  the  familiar  and  homely, 
wdiich  Nature  so  readily  adopts  into  a  scene  like  this,  tlie 
stage-coach  was  rattling  down  the  mountain-road,  and 
the  driver  sounded  his  horn,  while  echo  caught  up  the 
notes,  and  intertwined  tiiem  into  a  rich  and  varied  and 
elaborate  harmony,  of  which  the  original  perforuicr  could 
lay  claim  to  little  share.  The  great  hills  i)laycd  a  con- 
cert among  themselves,  each  contributing  a  strain  of  airy 
sweetness. 

Little  Joe's  face  brightened  at  once. 

"  Dear  father,"  cried  he,  skipjjing  cheerily  to  and  fro, 
"that  strange  man  is  gone,  and  the  sky  and  the  moun- 
tains all  seem  glad  of  it  !  " 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  lime-burner,  with  an  oath,  "  but 
he  has  let  the  fire  go  down,  and  no  thanks  to  him  if  five 
hundred  busliels  of  lime  arc  not  spoiled.  If  I  catch  the 
fellow  hereabouts  again,  I  shall  feel  like  tossing  him  into 
the  furnace !  " 

With  his  long  ])olc  in  his  hand,  he  ascended  to  the  top 
of  the  kiln.  After  a  moment's  pause,  he  called  to  his 
son. 

"  Come  np  here,  Joe  !  "  said  he. 

So  little  Joe  ran  ug  the  hillock,  and  stood  by  his 
father's  side.  The  marble  was  all  burnt  into  perfect, 
snow-white  lime.  But  on  its  surface,  in  the  midst  of  the 
circle,  —  snow-white  too,  and  thoroughly  converted  into 
lime,  — lay  a  human  skeleton,  in  the  attitude  of  a  person 
who,  after  long  toil,  lies  down  to  long  rcj)Osc.  Within 
the  ribs — strange  to  say  —  was  the  shape  of  a  human 
heart. 

"  Was  the  fellow's  heart  made  of  marble  ?  "  cried  Bar- 


116 


ETHxVN    BRAND. 


tram,  iu  some  perplexity  at  this  plieiioinenon.  "  At  any 
rate,  it  is  burnt  into  wliat  looks  like  special  good  lime  ; 
and,  taking  all  the  bones  together,  my  kiln  is  half  a 
bushel  the  richer  for  him." 

So  saying,  the  rude  lime-bunier  lifted  his  pole,  and, 
letting  it  fall  upon  the  skeleton,  the  relics  of  Ethan 
Brand  were  crumbled  into  fragments. 


A  BELL'S   BIOGRAPHY. 


EARKEN  to  our  neiglibor  with  the  iron  tongue. 
^Vliile  I  sit  musing  over  my  sheet  of  foolscap, 
he  emphatically  tells  the  hour,  in  tones  loud 
enough  for  all  the  town  to  hear,  though  doubtless  in- 
tended only  as  a  gentle  hhit  to  myself,  that  I  nuiy  begin 
Iiis  biography  before  the  evening  shall  be  further  wasted. 
Unqucstiona])ly,  a  personage  in  such  an  elevated  posi- 
tion, and  making  so  great  a  noise  in  tlie  world,  has  a  fair 
claim  to  the  services  of  a  biographer.  He  is  the  rej)rc- 
sentative  and  most  illustrious  member  of  that  innumer- 
able class,  whose  characteristic  feature  is  the  tongue,  and 
whose  sole  business,  to  clamor  for  the  public  good.  If 
any  of  his  uoisy  brethren,  in  our  tongue-governed  de- 
mocracy, be  envious  of  the  superiority  which  I  have  as- 
signed him,  they  have  my  free  consent  to  hang  them- 
selves as  high  as  he.  And,  for  his  history,  let  not  the 
reader  apprehend  an  empty  repetition  of  ding-dong-bell. 
He  has  been  the  passive  hero  of  wonderful  vicissiludes, 
with  which.  I  have  chanced  to  become  acquainted,  possi- 
bly from  his  own  mouth;  while  the  careless  multitude 
supposed  him  to  be  talking  merely  of  the  time  of  day,  or 
calling  them  to  dinner  or  to  church,  or  bidding  drowsy 
people  go  bedward,  or  the  dead  to  their  graves.  ^Many 
a  revolution  has  it  been  his  fate  to  go  through,  and  inva- 


118  A    BELL'S    BIOGRAPHY. 

riablj  witli  a  prodigious  uproar.  And  wlietlier  or  no  lie 
have  told  nie  Lis  reminiscences,  this  at  least  is  true,  that 
the  more  I  study  his  deep-toned  language,  the  more 
sense,  and  sentiment,  and  soul,  do  I  discover  in  it. 

This  bell  —  for  we  may  as  well  drop  our  quaint  per- 
sonification —  is  of  antique  French  manufacture,  and  the 
symbol  of  the  cross  betokens  that  it  was  meant  to  be  sus- 
p3nded  in  the  balfry  of  a  lloniisli  place  of  worship.  The 
old  people  hereabout  have  a  tradition,  that  a  consider- 
able part  of  the  metal  was  supplied  by  a  brass  cannon, 
captured  in  one  of  the  victories  of  Louis  tiie  rourteenth 
over  the  Spaniards,  and  that  a  Bourbon  princess  threw 
her  golden  crucifix  into  the  molten  mass.  It  is  said, 
likewise,  that  a  bishop  baptized  and  blessed  the  bell,  and 
prayed  that  a  heavenly  influence  might  mingle  M^ith  its 
tones.  When  all  due  ceremonies  had  been  performed, 
the  Grand  Monarque  bestowed  the  gift  —  than  which 
none  could  resound  his  beneficence  more  loudly  —  on 
the  Jesuits,  who  were  then  converting  the  American 
Indians  to  the  spiritual  dominion  of  the  Pope.  So  the 
bell,  —  our  self-same  bell,  whose  familiar  voice  we  may 
hear  at  all  hours,  in  the  streets,  —  this  very  bell  sent 
forth  its  first-born  accents  from  the  tower  of  a  log-built 
chapel,  westward  of  Lake  Champlain,  and  near  the 
miglity  stream  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  It  was  called  Our 
Lady's  Chapel  of  the  Forest.  The  peal  went  forth  as  if 
to  redeem  and  consecrate  the  heathen  wilderness.  Tlie 
wolf  growled  at  the  sound,  as  he  prowled  stealthily 
through  the  underbrush  ;  the  grim  bear  turned  his  back, 
and  stalk.^d  sullenly  away  ;  the  startled  doe  leaped  up, 
and  led  her  fawn  into  a  deeper  solitude.  The  red  men 
wondered  what  awful  voice  was  speaking  amid  the  wind 
that  roared  through  the  tree-tops  ;  and,  following  rever- 
entially  its   summons,   the   dark-robed    fathers   blessed 


A    BELLAS    BIOGRAPHY.  119 

them,  as  tliey  drew  near  the  cross-crowned  chapel.  In 
a  little  time,  there  was  a  crucilix  on  every  dusky  bosom. 
The  Indians  knelt  beneath  the  lowly  roof,  worshipping  in 
the  same  forms  that  were  observed  under  the  vast  d(jme 
of  St.  Peter's,  when  the  Pope  performed  high  mass  in 
the  presence  of  kneeling  princes.  All  the  religious  festi- 
vals, that  awoke  the  chiming  bells  of  lofty  cathedrals, 
called  forth  a  peal  from  Our  Lady's  Chapel  of  the  Porest. 
Loudly  rang  the  bell  of  the  wilderness  while  the  streets 
of  Paris  echoed  with  rejoicings  for  the  birthday  of  the 
Bourbon,  or  whenever  Prance  had  triumphed  on  some 
European  battle-field.  And  the  solemn  woods  were  sad- 
dened with  a  melancholy  knell,  as  often  as  the  thick- 
strewn  leaves  were  swept  away  from  the  virgin  soil, 
for  the  burial  of  an  Indian  chief. 

Meantime,  the  bells  of  a  hostile  people  and  a  hostile 
faith  were  ringing  on  Sabbaths  and  lecture-days,  at 
Boston  and  other  Puritan  towns.  Their  echoes  died 
away  hundreds  of  miles  southeastward  of  Our  Lady's 
Chapel.  But  scouts  had  threaded  the  pathless  desert 
that  lay  between,  and,  from  behind  the  huge  tree-trunks, 
perceived  the  Indians  assembling  at  the  summons  of  the 
bell.  Some  bore  flaxen-haired  scalps  at  their  girdles,  as 
if  to  lay  those  bloody  trophies  on  Our  Lady's  altar.  It 
was  reported,  and  believed,  all  through  New  England, 
that  the  Pope  of  Rome,  and  the  King  of  Prance,  had 
established  this  little  chapel  in  the  forest,  for  the  j)urposc 
of  stirring  up  the  red  men  to  a  crusade  against  the 
English  settlers.  The  latter  took  energetic  measures  to 
secure  their  religion  and  their  lives.  On  the  eve  of  an 
especial  fast  of  the  Romish  Church,  while  the  bell  tolled 
dismally,  and  the  priests  were  chanting  a  doleful  stave, 
a  band  of  New  England  rangers  rushed  from  the  sur- 
rounding woods.     Pierce  shouts,  and  the  report  of  mus- 


120  A    BELL'S    BIOGRAPHY. 

ketry,  pealed  suddenly  within  tlie  chapel.  The  minis- 
tering priests  threw  themselves  before  the  altar,  and 
were  slain  even  on  its  steps.  If,  as  antique  traditions 
tell  us,  no  grass  will  grow  where  the  blood  of  martyrs 
has  been  shed,  there  should  be  a  barren  spot,  to  this 
very  day,  on  the  site  of  that  desecrated  altar. 

While  the  blood  was  still  plashing  from  step  to  step, 
tlie  leader  of  tlie  rangers  seized  a  torch,  and  applied  it  to 
the  drapery  of  the  shrine.  The  flame  and  smoke  arose, 
as  from  a  burnt-sacrifice,  at  once  illuminating  and  ob- 
scuring the  whole  interior  of  the  chapel,  —  now  hiding 
the  dead  priests  in  a  sable  shroud,  now  revealing  them 
and  their  slayers  in  one  terrific  glare.  Some  already 
wished  that  the  altar-smoke  could  cover  the  deed  from 
the  sight  of  Heaven.  But  one  of  the  rangers  —  a  man 
of  sanctified  aspect,  though  his  hands  were  bloody  — 
approached  the  captain. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  our  village  meeting-house  lacks  a 
bell,  and  hitherto  we  have  been  lain  to  summon  the  good 
people  to  worship  by  beat  of  drum.  Give  me,  I  pray 
you,  the  bell  of  this  popish  chapel,  for  the  sake  of  the 
godly  ]\[r.  Rogers,  who  doubtless  hath  remembered  us  in 
the  prayers  of  the  cougregation,  ever  since  Vv-e  began  our 
march.  Who  can  tell  what  share  of  this  night's  good 
success  we  owe  to  that  holy  man's  wrestling  with  the 
Lord  ?  " 

"Nay,  then,"  answered  the  captain,  "if  good  Mr. 
Rogers  hath  holpen  our  enterprise,  it  is  right  that  he 
should  share  the  spoil.  Take  the  bell  and  w^elcome. 
Deacon  Lawson,  if  you  will  be  at  the  trouble  of  carrying 
it  home.  Hitherto  it  hath  spoken  nothing  but  papistry, 
and  that  too  in  the  French  or  Indian  gibberish  ;  but  I 
warrant  me,  if  Mr.  Rogers  consecrate  it  anew,  it  will 
talk  like  a  "rood  Euo-lish  and  Protestant  bell." 


A    BELL'S    BIOGRAPHY.  121 

So  Deacon  Lawson  aud  lialf  a  score  of  liis  townsmen 
took  down  the  bell,  suspended  it  on  a  pole,  and  bore  it 
away  on  tlieir  sturdy  shoulders,  meaning  to  carry  it  to 
the  shore  of  Lake  Champlain,  and  thence  homeward  by 
water.  Far  through  the  woods  gleamed  the  flames  of 
Our  Lady's  Ciiapel,  flinging  fantastic  shadows  from  the 
clustered  foliage,  and  glancing  on  brooks  that  had  never 
caught  the  sunlight.  As  the  rangers  traversed  the  mid- 
night forest,  staggering  under  their  heavy  burden,  the 
tongue  of  the  bell  gave  many  a  tremendous  stroke, — 
clang,  clang,  clang !  —  a  most  doleful  sound,  as  if  it  were 
tolling  for  the  slaughter  of  the  priests  and  the  ruin  of 
the  chapel.  Little  dreamed  Deacon  Lawson  and  his 
townsmen  that  it  was  their  own  funeral  knell.  A  war- 
party  of  Indians  had  heard  the  report  of  musketry,  and 
seen  the  blaze  of  the  chapel,  and  now  were  on  the  track 
of  the  rangers,  summoned  to  vengeance  by  the  bell's 
dismal  murmurs.  In  the  midst  of  a  deep  swamp,  they 
made  a  sudden  onset  on  the  retreating  foe.  Good  Dea- 
con Lawson  battled  stoutly,  but  had  his  skull  cloven  by 
a  tomahawk,  and  sank  into  the  depths  of  the  morass, 
with  the  ponderous  bell  above  him.  And,  for  many  a 
year  thereafter,  our  hero's  voice  was  heard  no  more  on 
earth,  neither  at  the  hour  of  worship,  nor  at  festivals 
nor  funerals. 

And  is  he  still  buried  in  that  nnknown  grave? 
Scarcely  so,  dear  reader.  Ilark  !  How  plainly  we  hear 
him  at  this  moment,  the  spokesman  of  Tinie,  ))roclaim- 
ing  that  it  is  nine  o'clock  at  night  !  We  may  therefore 
safely  conclude  that  some  happy  chance  has  restored 
him  to  npper  air. 

But  there  lay  the  bell,  for  many  silent  years  ;  and  the 
wonder  is,  that  he  did  not  lie  silent  there  a  century,  or 
perhaps  a  dozen  centuries,  till  the  world  should  have  for- 
6 


122  A    BELL'S    BIOGRAPHY. 

gotten  not  only  his  voice,  but  tlie  voices  of  the  whole 
brotherhood  of  bells.  How  would  the  first  accent  of  his 
iron  tongue  have  startled  his  resurrectionists !  But  he 
was  not  fated  to  be  a  subject  of  discussion  among  the 
antiquaries  of  far  posterity.  Near  the  close  of  the  Old 
French  AVar,  a  party  of  New  England  axe-men,  who 
preceded  the  uiarcli  of  Colonel  Bradstreet  toward  Lake 
Ontario,  were  building  a  bridge  of  logs  through  a  swanij). 
Plunging  down  a  stake,  one  of  these  pioneers  felt  it 
graze  against  some  hard,  smooth  substance.  He  called 
his  couirades,  and,  by  their  united  eit'orts,  the  top  of  tiie 
bell  was  raised  to  the  surface,  a  rope  made  fast  to  it,  and 
thence  passed  over  the  horizontal  limb  of  a  tree.  Heave- 
oh  !  up  they  hoisted  their  prize,  dripping  with  moisture, 
and  festooned  with  verdant  water-moss.  As  the  base  of 
the  bell  emerged  from  the  swamp,  the  pioneers  perceived 
that  a  skeleton  was  clinging  with  its  bony  fingers  to  the 
clapper,  but  immediately  relaxing  its  nerveless  grasp, 
sank  back  into  the  stagnant  water.  The  bell  then  gave 
forth  a  sullen  clang.  No  wonder  that  he  was  in  haste 
to  speak,  after  holding  his  tongue  for  such  a  length  of 
time !  The  pioneers  shoved  the  bell  to  and  fro,  thus 
ringing  a  loud  and  heavy  peal,  which  echoed  widely 
through  the  forest,  and  reached  the  ears  of  Colonel 
Bradstreet,  and  his  three  thousand  men.  The  soldiers 
paused  on  their  march;  a  feeling  of  religion,  mingled 
with  home-tenderness,  overpowered  their  rude  hearts  ; 
each  seemed  to  hear  the  clangor  of  the  old  church-bell, 
which  had  been  familiar  to  him  from  infancy,  and  had 
tolled  at  the  funerals  of  all  his  forefathers.  By  what 
magic  had  that  holy  sound  strayed  over  the  wide-mur- 
muring ocean,  and  become  audible  amid  the  clash  of 
arms,  the  loud  crashing  of  the  artillery  over  the  rough 
wilderness-path,  and  the  melancholy  roar  of  the  wind 
anion":  the  boughs  ? 


A    BELL'S    BIOGRAPHY.  123 

The  New-Eiiglanders  hid  tlieir  prize  in  a  sliudowy 
nook,  betwixt  a  large  gray  stone  and  the  eartliy  roots  of 
an  overtiiroxA'ii  tree  ;  and  when  the  campaign  was  ended, 
tliey  conveyed  our  friend  to  Boston,  and  put  him  up  at 
auction  on  the  sidewalk  of  King  Street.  He  was  sus- 
pended, for  tlie  nonce,  by  a  block  and  tackle,  and  being 
swung  backward  and  forward,  gave  such  loud  and  clear 
testimony  to  his  own  merits,  that  the  auctioneer  had  no 
need  to  say  a  word.  The  highest  bidder  was  a  rich  old 
representative  from  our  town,  who  piously  bestowed  the 
bell  on  the  meeting-iiouse  where  he  had  been  a  worship- 
per for  half  a  century.  The  good  man  had  his  reward. 
By  a  strange  coincidence,  the  very  first  duty  of  the  sex- 
ton, after  the  bell  had  been  hoisted  into  the  belfry,  was 
to  toll  the  funeral  knell  of  the  donor.  Soon,  however, 
those  doleful  echoes  were  drowned  by  a  triumphant  peal 
for  the  surrender  of  Quebec. 

Ever  since  that  period,  our  hero  has  occupied  the 
same  elevated  station,  and  has  put  in  his  word  on  all 
matters  of  public  importance,  civil,  military,  or  religious. 
On  the  day  when  Independence  was  first  proclaimed  in 
the  street  beneath,  he  uttered  a  peal  which  many  deemed 
ominous  and  fearful,  rather  than  triumphant.  But  he 
has  told  the  same  story  these  sixty  years,  and  none  mis- 
take his  meaning  now.  "When  Washington,  in  the 
fulness  of  his  glory,  rode  through  our  llower-strcwn 
streets,  this  was  the  tongue  that  bade  the  Father  of  his 
Country  welcome !  Again  the  same  voice  was  heard, 
when  La  Fayette  came  to  gather  in  his  half-century's 
liarvest  of  gratitude.  Meantime,  vast  changes  have  been 
going  on  below.  His  voice,  which  once  floated  over  a 
little  provincial  seaport,  is  now  reverberated  between 
brick  edifices,  and  strikes  the  ear  amid  the  buzz  and 
tumult  of  a  citv.     On  the  Sabbaths  of  olden  time,  the 


124  A    BELL'S    BIOGTIAPHY. 

summons  of  tlie  bell  was  obeyed  by  a  picturesque  and 
varied  throng;  stately  gentlemen  in  purple  velvet  coats, 
embroidered  waistcoats,  wbite  wigs,  and  gold-laced  hats, 
stepping  with  grave  courtesy  beside  ladies  in  flowered 
satin  gowns,  and  hoop-petticoats  of  majestic  circumfer- 
ence ;  while  behind  followed  a  liveried  slave  or  bonds- 
man, bearing  the  psalm-book,  and  a  stove  for  his  mis- 
tress's feet.  The  commonalty,  clad  in  homely  garb,  gave 
precedence  to  their  betters  at  the  door  of  the  meeting- 
house, as  if  admitting  that  there  were  distinctions  be- 
tween them,  even  in  the  sight  of  God.  Yet,  as  their 
coffins  were  borne  one  after  another  througli  the  street, 
the  ball  has  tolled  a  requiem  for  all  alike.  What  mat- 
tered it,  whether  or  no  there  were  a  silver  scutcheon  on 
the  coffin-lid  ?  "  Open  thy  bosom,  Mother  Earth  ! " 
Thus  spake  the  bell.  "  Another  of  thy  children  is  com- 
ing to  his  long  rest.  Take  him  to  thy  bosom,  and  let 
him  slumber  in  peace."  Thus  spake  the  bell,  and 
Mother  Earth  received  her  child.  With  the  self-same 
tones  will  the  present  generatit)n  be  ushered  to  the  em- 
braces of  their  mother ;  and  Mother  Earth  will  still  re- 
ceive her  children.  Is  not  thy  tongue  a-weary,  mourn- 
ful talker  of  two  centuries  ?  O  funeral  bell !  wilt  thou 
never  be  shattered  with  thine  own  melancholy  strokes  ? 
Yea,  and  a  trumpet-call  shall  arouse  the  sleepers,  whom 
thy  heavy  clang  could  awake  no  more  ! 

Again  —  again  thy  voice,  reminding  me  that  I  am 
wasting  the  "  midnight  oil."  In  my  lonely  fantasy,  I 
can  scarce  believe  that  other  mortals  have  caught  tlie 
sound,  or  tiiat  it  vibrates  elsewhere  than  in  my  secret 
soul.  But  to  many  hast  thou  spoken.  Anxious  men 
have  heard  thee  on  their  sleepless  pillows,  and  bethought 
themselves  anew  of  to-morrow's  care.  In  a  brief  inter- 
val of  wakefulness,  the  sons  of  toil  have  heard  thee,  and 


A    BELL'S    BIOGRAPHY.  125 

say,  "  Is  so  much  of  our  quiet  slumber  speut  ?  —  is  llie 
morning  so  near  at  hand  ?  "  Crime  has  heard  thee,  and 
mutters,  "  Now  is  tlie  very  hour  !  "  Despair  answers 
thee,  "  Thus  much  of  tliis  weary  life  is  gone ! "  The 
young  mother,  on  her  bed  of  pain  and  ecstasy,  lias 
counted  thy  echoing  strokes,  and  dates  from  them  her 
first-born's  share  of  life  and  immortuhly.  The  bride- 
groom and  the  bride  have  listened,  and  feel  that  their 
night  of  rapture  flits  like  a  dream  away.  Thine  accents 
have  fallen  faintly  on  the  ear  of  the  dying  man,  and 
warned  him  that,  ere  thou  speakest  again,  his  spirit  shall 
have  passed  whither  no  voice  of  time  can  ever  reach. 
Alas  for  the  departing  traveller,  if  thy  voice  —  the  voice 
of  fleeting  time— have  taught  him  no  lessons  for  Eter- 
nity! 


SYLPH  ETHEREGE. 

X  a  brii^lit  summer  eveuiug,  two  persons  stood 
among  the  shrubbery  of  a  gard^u,  steahhily 
watching  a  young  girl,  who  sat  in  tlie  window- 
seat  of  a  neighboring  mansion.  One  of  tliese  unseen  ob- 
servers, a  gantleman,  was  youtliful,  and  had  an  air  of 
high  breeding  and  refinement,  and  a  face  marked  with 
intellect,  though  otherwise  of  unprepossessing  aspect. 
His  features  wore  even  an  ominous,  though  somewhat 
mirthful  expression,  while  he  pointed  his  long  forefingar 
at  the  girl,  and  seemed  to  regard  her  as  a  creature  com- 
pletely within  the  scope  of  his  influence, 

"The  charm  works  I  "  said  he,  in  a  low,  but  emphatic 
whisper. 

"  Do  you  know,  Edward  Hamilton,  —  since  so  you 
choose  to  be  named,  —  do  you  know,"  said  the-  lady 
beside  him,  "  that  I  have  almost  a  mind  to  break  the 
spell  at  once?  What  if  the  lesson  should  prove  too 
severe !  True,  if  my  ward  could  be  thus  laughed  out 
of  her  fantastic  nonsense,  she  might  be  the  better  for  it 
through  life.  But  then,  she  is  such  a  delicate  creature  ! 
And,  besides,  are  you  not  ruining  your  own  chance,  by 
putting  forward  this  shadow  of  a  rival  ?  " 

"But  will  he  not  vanish  into  thin  air,  at  my  bidding?" 
rejoined  Edward  Hamilton.     "  Let  the  charm  work  !  " 


SYLPH    ETIIEREGE.  127 

Tlie  girl's  slender  and  5yl[)h-like  figure,  tinged  with 
radiance  from  the  sunset  clouds,  and  overhung  with  tlie 
rich  drapery  of  tlie  silken  curtains,  and  set  within  the 
deep  frame  of  the  window,  was  a  perfect  picture;  or, 
rather,  it  was  like  the  original  loveliness  in  a  pahiter's 
fancy,  from  whicii  the  most  finislied  picture  is  but  an  im- 
perfect copy.  Though  iier  occupation  excited  so  much 
interest  in  the  two  spectators,  she  was  merely  gazing  at 
a  miniature  which  she  held  in  her  hand,  encased  in  white 
satin  and  red  morocco;  nor  did  there  appear  to  be  any 
otiier  cause  for  the  smile  of  mockery  and  nudicc  with 
which  Hamilton  regarded  her. 

"The  charm  works!"  muttered  he,  again.  "Our 
pretty  Sylvia's  scorn  will  have  a  dear  retribution!" 

At  this  moment  the  girl  raised  iier  eyes,  and,  instead 
of  a  life-like  semblance  of  the  miniature,  beheld  the  ill- 
omened  shape  of  Edward  Hamilton,  who  now  stepped 
forth  from  his  concealment  in  the  shrubbery. 

Sylvia  Etheregc  was  an  orphan  girl,  who  had  spent 
her  life,  till  within  a  few  months  past,  under  the  guar- 
dianship, and  in  the  secluded  dwelling,  of  an  old  bachdor 
nncle.  While  yet  in  her  cradle,  she  had  been  the  des- 
tined bride  of  a  cousin,  who  was  no  less  passive  in  the 
betrothal  than  herself.  Their  future  union  had  been 
projected,  as  the  means  of  uniting  two  rich  estates,  and 
was  rendered  highly  expedient,  if  not  indispensable,  l)y 
the  testamentary  dispositions  of  the  parents  on  both 
sides.  Edgar  Vaughan,  the  promised  bridegroom,  had 
been  bred  from  infancy  in  Europe,  and  had  never  seen 
the  beautiful  girl  whose  heart  lie  was  to  claim  as  his  in- 
lieritance.  But  already,  for  several  years,  a  eorres])ond- 
ence  had  been  kept  up  between  the  cousins,  and  had 
produced  an  intellectual  intimacy,  though  it  could  but 
imperfectly  acquaint  ihcm  with  each  other's  character. 


128  SYLPII    ETHEREGE. 

Sylvia -was  sliy,  sensitive,  and  fanciful;  and  her  guar- 
dian's secluded  habits  had  shut  her  out  from  even  so  much 
of  the  world  as  is  generally  open  to  maidens  of  her  age. 
She  had  been  left  to  seek  associates  and  friends  for  hcr- 
s?lf  in  the  haunts  of  imagination,  and  to  converse  with 
them,  sometimes  in  the  language  of  dead  poets,  oftener 
in  the  poetry  of  her  own  mind.  The  companion  whom 
she  chiefly  summoned  up  was  the  cousin  with  whose  idea 
her  earliest  thoughts  had  been  connected.  She  made  a 
vision  of  Edgar  Vaughan,  and  tinted  it  with  stronger 
hues  than  a  mere  fancy-picture,  yet  graced  it  with  so 
many  bright  and  delicate  perfections,  that  her  cousin 
could  nowhere  have  encountered  so  dangerous  a  rival. 
To  this  shadow  she  cherished  a  romantic  fidelity.  With 
its  airy  presence  sitting  by  her  side,  or  gliding  along  her 
favorite  paths,  the  loneliness  of  her  young  life  was  bliss- 
ful; her  heart  was  satisfied  with  love,  while  yet  its  virgin 
purity  was  untainted  by  the  earthliness  that  the  touch  of 
a  real  lover  would  have  left  there,  Edgar  Yaughan 
seemed  to  be  conscious  of  her  character ;  for,  in  his 
letters,  he  gave  her  a  name  that  was  happily  appropriate 
to  the  sensitiveness  of  her  disposition,  the  delicate  pe- 
culiarity of  her  manners,  and  the  ethereal  beauty  both  of 
her  mind  and  person.  Instead  of  Sylvia,  he  called  her 
Sylph,  —  with  the  prerogative  of  a  cousin  and  a  lover,  — 
his  dear  Sylph  Etherege. 

When  Sylvia  was  seventeen,  her  guardian  died,  and 
she  passed  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Grosvenor,  a  lady  of 
Avealth  and  fashion,  and  Sylvia's  nearest  relative,  though 
a  distant  one.  While  an  himate  of  Mrs.  Grosvenor's 
family,  she  still  preserved  somewhat  of  her  life -long  habits 
of  seclusion,  and  shrank  from  a  too  familiar  intercourse 
witii  those  around  licr.  Still,  too,  she  was  faithful  to  her 
cousin,  or  to  the  shadow  wliich  bore  his  name. 


SYLPII    ETIIEREGE.  129 

Tlie  tiino  now  drew  near  wlien  Edgar  Vauglian,  wliose 
education  liad  been  completed  by  an  extensive  ranpre  of 
travel,  was  to  revisit  the  soil  of  his  nativity.  Edward 
Hamilton,  a  young  gentleman,  who  had  been  Yaughan's 
companion,  both  in  his  studies  and  rambles,  had  already 
recrossed  the  Atlantic,  bringing  letters  to  Mrs.  Grosve- 
nor  and  Sylvia  Etherege.  These  credentials  insured  liim 
an  earnest  welcome,  which,  however,  on  Sylvia's  part,  was 
not  followed  by  personal  partiality,  or  even  the  regard 
that  seeuu'd  due  to  her  cousin's  most  intimate  friend. 
As  she  herself  could  have  assigned  no  cause  for  her 
repugnance,  it  might  be  tenucd  histinctive.  Hamilton's 
person,  it  is  true,  was  the  reverse  of  attractive,  especially 
■when  beheld  for  the  first  time.  Yet,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
most  fastidious  judges,  the  defect  of  natural  grace  was 
compensated  by  the  polish  of  his  manners,  and  by  the 
intellect  which  so  often  gleamed  through  his  dark  fea- 
tures. Mrs.  Grosvenor,  with  whom  he  immediately  be- 
came a  prodigious  favorite,  exerled  herself  to  overcome 
Sylvia's  dislike.  But,  in  this  matter,  her  ward  could 
neither  be  reasoned  with  nor  persuaded.  The  presence 
of  Edward  Hamilton  was  sure  to  render  her  cold,  shy, 
and  distant,  abstracting  all  the  vivacity  from  her  deport- 
ment, as  if  a  cloud  had  come  betwixt  her  and  the  sun- 
shine. 

The  simplicity  of  Sylvia's  demeanor  rendered  it  easy 
for  so  keen  an  observer  as  Hamilton  to  detect  her  feel- 
ings. Whenever  any  slight  circumstance  made  him  sen- 
sible of  them,  a  smile  might  be  seen  to  flit  over  the  young 
nan's  sallow  visage.  None,  that  had  once  beheld  this 
smile,  vi-evG  in  any  danger  of  forgetting  it ;  whenever 
they  recalled  to  memory  the  features  of  Edward  Hamil- 
ton, they  were  always  duskily  illuminated  by  this  expres- 
sion of  mockery  and  malice. 

.,  "    6^-^  I 


130  SYLPH    ETHEREGE. 

Ill  a  few  weeks  after  H:i!iiilton's  arrival,  he  presented 
to  Sylvia  Etlicrego  a  miniature  of  her  cousin,  which, 
as  he  informed  her,  would  have  been  delivered  sooner, 
but  was  detained  with  a  portion  of  his  baggage.  This 
was  the  miniature  in  the  contemplation  of  which  we 
bsheld  Sylvia  so  absorbed,  at  the  commencement  of  our 
story.  Such,  in  truth,  was  too  often  the  habit  of  the 
shy  and  musing  girl.  The  beauty  of  the  pictured  coun- 
tenance was  almost  too  perfect  to  represent  a  human 
creature,  that  had  been  born  of  a  fallen  and  world- worn 
race,  and  had  lived  to  manhood  amid  ordinary  troubles 
and  enjoyments,  and  must  become  wrinkled  with  age 
and  care.  It  seemed  too  bright  for  a  thing  formed  of 
dust,  and  doomed  to  crumble  into  dust  again.  Sylvia 
feared  that  such  a  being  would  be  too  refined  and  deli- 
cate to  love  a  simple  girl  like  her.  Yet,  even  while  her 
spirit  drooped  with  that  apprehension,  the  picture  was 
but  the  masculine  counterpart  of  Sylph  Etherege's  sylph- 
like beauty.  There  was  that  resemblance  between  her 
own  face  and  the  miniature  which  is  said  often  to  exist 
between  lovers  whom  Heaven  has  destined  for  each 
other,  and  which,  in  this  instance,  might  be  owing  to  the 
kindred  blood  of  the  two  parties.  Sylvia  felt,  indeed, 
that  there  was  something  familiar  in  the  countenance,  so 
like  a  friend  did  the  eyes  smile  upon  her,  and  seem  to 
imply  a  knowledge  of  her  thoughts.  She  could  account 
for  this  impression  only  by  supposing  that,  in  some  of 
her  day-dreams,  imagination  had  conjured  up  the  true 
similitude  of  her  distant  and  unseen  lover. 

But  now  could  Sylvia  give  a  brighter  semblance  of 
reality  to  those  day-dreams.  Clasping  the  miniature  to 
her  heart,  she  could  summon  forth,  from  that  haunted 
cell  of  pure  and  blissful  fantasies,  the  life-like  shadow, 
to   roam  with  her  in  the   moonlight  garden.     Even  at 


SYLPH  etherp:ge.  1:31 

noontide  it  sat  with  licr  in  tlic  arl)or,  wlioii  tlic  sunsliiue 
threw  its  broken  flakes  of  gold  into  tiie  clusterinfr  shade. 
The  effect  upon  licr  mind  was  liardly  less  powerful  than 
if  she  had  actually  listened  to,  and  reciprocated,  the 
vows  of  Edgar  Yaughau  ;  for,  though  the  illusion  never 
quite  deceived  her,  yet  the  remembrance  was  as  distinct 
as  of  a  remembered  interview.  Those  heavenly  eyes 
gazed  forever  into  her  soul,  which  drank  at  them  as  at 
a  fountain,  and  was  disquieted  if  reality  threw  a  momen- 
tary cloud  between.  She  heard  the  niclody  of  a  voice 
breathing  sentiments  with  which  her  own  chimed  in  like 
music.  O  happy,  yet  hapless  girl  !  Thus  to  create  the 
being  whom  she  loves,  to  endow  hiui  with  all  the  at- 
tributes that  were  most  fascinating  to  her  heart,  and 
then  to  flit  with  the  airy  creature  into  the  realm  of  fan- 
tasy and  moonlight,  where  dwelt  his  dreauiy  kindred  ! 
For  her  lover  wiled  Sylvia  away  from  earth,  wliich 
seemed  strange,  and  dull,  and  darksome,  and  lured  her 
to  a  country  where  her  spirit  roamed  in  peaceful  rap- 
ture, deeming  that  it  had  found  its  home.  Many,  in 
their  youth,  have  visited  that  land  of  dreams,  and  wan- 
dered so  long  in  its  enchanted  groves,  that,  when  ban- 
ished thence,  they  feel  like  exiles  everywhere. 

The  dark-browed  Edward  Hamilton,  like  the  villain 
of  a  tale,  would  often  glide  tiirough  the  romance  wherein 
poor  Sylvia  walked.  Sometimes,  at  the  most  blissful 
mon^ent  of  her  ecstasy,  when  the  features  of  the  minia- 
ture were  pictured  brightest  in  the  air,  they  would  sud- 
denly change,  and  darken,  and  be  transformed  into  his 
visage.  And  always,  when  such  change  occurred,  the 
intrusive  visage  wore  that  peculiar  smile  with  which 
Hamilton  had  glanced  at  Sylvia. 

Before  the  close  of  suumier,  it  was  told  Sylvia 
Ethcrege  that  Yaughau   had   arrived  from  Erance,  and 


132  SYLPH    ETHEREGE. 

tliat  she  would  meet  liim  —  would  meet,  for  the  first 
time,  the  loved  of  years  — that  very  evening.  We  will 
not  tell  how  often  and  how  earnestly  she  gazed  upon  the 
miniature,  thus  endeavoring  to  prepare  herself  for  the 
approaching  interview,  lest  the  throbbing  of  her  timor- 
ous heart  should  stifle  the  words  of  welcome.  While 
the  twilight  grew  deeper  and  duskier,  she  sat  with  Mrs. 
Grosvenor  in  an  inner  apartment,  lighted  only  by  the 
softened  gleam  from  an  alabaster  lamp,  which  was  burn- 
ing at  a  distance  on  the  centre-table  of  the  drawing- 
room.  Never  before  liad  Sylph  Etherege  looked  so 
sylph-like.  She  had  communed  with  a  creature  of  im- 
aginatiou,  till  her  own  loveliness  seemed  but  the  crea- 
tion of  a  delicate  and  dreamy  fancy.  Every  vibration 
of  her  spirit  was  visible  in  her  frame,  as  she  listened  to 
the  rattling  of  wheels  and  the  tramp  upon  the  pavement, 
and  deemed  that  even  the  breeze  bore  the  sound  of  her 
lover's  footsteps,  as  if  he  trode  upon  the  viewless  air. 
Mrs.  Grosvenor,  too,  while  she  watched  the  tremulous 
flow  of  Syh^ia's  feelings,  was  deeply  moved  ;  she  looked 
uneasily  at  the  agitated  girl,  and  was  about  to  speak, 
when  the  opening  of  the  street-door  arrested  the  words 
upon  her  lips. 

Footsteps  ascended  the  staircase,  with  a  confident  and 
familiar  tread,  and  some  one  entered  the  drawing-room. 
From  the  sofa  where  they  sat,  in  the  inner  apartment, 
Mrs.  Grosvenor  and  Sylvia  could  not  discern  the  visitor. 

"  Sylph  !"  cried  a  voice.  "  Dearest  Sylph  !  Where 
are  you,  sweet  Sylph  Etherege  ?  Here  is  your  Edgar 
Yaughan  !  " 

But  instead  of  answering,  or  rising  to  meet  her  lover, 
—  who  had  greeted  her  by  the  sweet  and  fanciful  name, 
which,  appropriate  as  it  was  to  her  character,  was  known 
only  to  him,  —  Sylvia  grasped  Mrs.  Grosveuor's  arm, 


SYLPH    ETII£I{EGE.  133 

wliilc  her  wliolc  frame  shook  witli  the  throhhiiig  of  her 
heart. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  gasped  slie.     "  "Who  calls  me  Sylph  ?  " 

Before  Mrs.  Grosvenor  could  reply,  tlie  stranger 
entered  the  room,  bearing  the  lamp  in  his  hand.  Ap- 
proaching the  sofa,  he  displayed  to  Sylvia  the  features 
of  Edward  Hamilton,  illuminated  by  that  evil  smile, 
from  which  his  face  derived  so  marked  an  individuality. 

"Is  not  the  niiuiature  an  admirable  likeness?"  in- 
quired he. 

Sylvia  shuddered,  but  had  not  power  to  turn  away  her 
white  face  from  his  gaze.  The  miniature,  which  she  had 
been  holding  in  her  hand,  fell  down  upon  the  floor,  where 
Hamilton,  or  Yaughan,  set  his  foot  upon  it,  and  crushed 
the  ivory  counterfeit  to  fragments. 

"  There,  my  sweet  Sylph,"  he  exclaimed.  "  It  was 
I  that  created  your  phantom -lover,  and  now  I  annihilate 
him  !  Your  dream  is  rudely  broken.  Awake,  Sylph 
Ethcrege,  awake  to  truth !  I  am  the  only  Edgar 
Vaughan  !  " 

"  We  have  gone  too  far,  Edgar  Yaughan."  said  Mrs. 
Grosvenor,  catching  Sylvia  in  her  arms.  The  revenge- 
ful freak,  whicli  Yaughau's  wound(jd  vanity  had  sug- 
gested, had  l)eeu  countenanced  by  this  lady,  in  the  hope 
of  curing  Sylvia  of  her  romantic  notions,  and  reconcil- 
ing her  to  the  truths  and  realities  of  life.  "Look  at  the 
poor  child  !  "  she  contiuued.  "  I  protest  I  tremble  for 
the  consequences !  " 

"Indeed,  madam!"  replied  Yaughan,  sneeriiigly,  as 
he  threw  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  Sylvia's  closed  eyes 
and  marble  features.  "  Well,  my  conscience  is  clear.  I 
did  but  look  into  this  delicate  creature's  heart  ;  nnd  with 
the  pure  fjiutnsies  that  I  found  there,  I  mnde  what 
seemed  a  man,  —  and  the  delusive  shadow  lias  wiled  her 


134  SYLPH    ETHEREGE. 

away  to  Shadow-land,  and  vanished  tliere  !  It  is  no 
new  tale.  Many  a  sweet  maid  has  shared  the  lot  of 
poor  Sylph  Etlierege  !  " 

"  And  now,  Edgar  Yaughau,"  said  Mrs.  Grosvenor, 
as  Sylvia's  heart  began  faintly  to  throb  again,  "  now  try, 
in  good  earnest,  to  win  back  her  love  from  the  phantom 
which  you  conjured  up.  If  you  succeed,  she  will  be  the 
better,  her  whole  life  long,  for  the  lesson  we  have  given 
her." 

Whether  the  result  of  the  lesson  corresponded  with 
Mrs.  Grosvenor's  hopes,  may  be  gathered  from  the  clos- 
ing scene  of  our  story.  It  had  been  made  known  to 
the  fashionable  world  that  Edgar  Vaughan  had  returned 
from  France,  and,  under  the  assumed  name  of  Edward 
Hamilton,  had  won  the  affections  of  the  lovely  girl  to 
"whom  he  had  been  affianced  in  his  boyhood.  The  nup- 
tials were  to  take  place  at  an  early  date.  One  eveu- 
mg,  before  the  day  of  anticipated  bliss  arrived,  Edgar 
Vaughan  entered  Mrs.  Grosvenor's  drawing-room,  where 
he  found  that  lady  and  Sylph  Etherege. 

"  Only  that  Sylvia  makes  no  complaint,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Grosvenor,  "  I  sliould  apprehend  that  the  town  air 
is  ill-suited  to  her  constitution.  She  was  always,  indeed, 
a  delicate  creature ;  but  now  she  is  a  mere  gossamer. 
Do  but  look  at  her  !  Did  you  ever  imagine  anything  so 
fragile?" 

Vaughan  was  already  attentively  observing  his  mis- 
tress, who  sat  in  a  shadowy  and  moonlighted  recess  of 
the  room,  with  her  dreamy  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  upon 
his  own.  The  bough  of  a  tree  was  waving  before  the 
window,  and  sometimes  enveloped  her  in  the  gloom  of 
its  shadow,  into  which  she  seemed  to  vanish. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  to  Mrs.  Grosvenor.  "I  can  scarcely 
deem  her  'of  the  earth,  earthy,'     No  wonder  that  I  call 


SYLPH    ETHEREGE.  135 

her  Sylpli !  Metliinks  slie  will  tud(r  into  the  moonlight, 
which  falls  upon  her  through  the  window.  Or,  in  the 
open  air,  slie  might  flit  away  upon  the  breeze,  like  a 
wreath  of  mist !  " 

Sylvia's  eyes  grew  yet  brighter.  She  waved  her  baud 
to  Edgar  Vaughan,  with  a  gesture  of  ethereal  triumpii. 

"  Farewell !  "  she  said.  "  1  will  neither  fade  into  the 
moonhght,  nor  flit  away  upon  the  breeze.  Yet  you  can- 
not keep  me  here  !  " 

There  was  something  in  Sylvia's  look  and  tones  that 
startled  Mrs.  Grosvenor  with  a  terrible  apprehension. 
But,  as  she  was  rushing  towards  tlic  girl,  Vaughan  held 
her  back. 

"  Stay !  "  cried  he,  with  a  strange  smile  of  mockery 
and  anguish.  "  Can  our  sweet  Sylph  be  going  to  heaven, 
to  seek  the  original  of  the  miniature  ?  " 


THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS. 


IMS 


into 


TIE  summer  moon,  wliicli  sliiucs  iii  so  many  a 

tale,  was  beamini^  over  a  broad  extent  of  uneven 

country.     Some  of  its  brightest  rays  Avere  flung 

spring  of  water,  where  no  traveller,  toiling,  as  the 


writer  has,  up  the  hilly  road  beside  which  it  gushes,  ever 
failed  to  quench  his  thirst.  The  work  of  neat  hands  and 
considerate  art  was  visible  about  this  blessed  fountain. 
An  open  cistern,  hewn  and  hollowed  out  of  solid  stone, 
was  placed  above  the  waters,  which  filled  it  to  the  brim, 
but,  by  some  invisible  outlet,  were  conveyed  away  with- 
out dripping  down  its  sides.  Though  the  basin  had  not 
room  for  another  drop,  and  the  continual  gush  of  water 
made  a  tremor  on  the  surface,  there  vv'as  a  secret  charm 
that  forbade  it  to  overflow.  I  remember,  that  when  I 
had  slaked  my  summer  thirst,  and  sat  panting  by  the 
cistern,  it  was  my  fanciful  theory,  that  Nature  could  not 
afford  to  lavish  so  pure  a  liquid,  as  she  does  the  waters 
of  all  meaner  fountains. 

While  the  moon  was  hanging  almost  perpendicularly 
over  this  spot,  two  figures  appeared  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  and  came  with  noiseless  footste])S  down  towards  the 
spring.  They  were  then  in  the  first  freshness  of  youth  ; 
nor  is  there  a  wrinkle  now  on  either  of  their  brows,  and 
yet  they   wore  a  strange,   old-fashioned  garb.     One,  a 


THE    CAXTERBURY    PILGRIMS.  l.'^? 

Toung  man  wifli  ruddy  cheeks,  walked  beneatli  tlie  can- 
opy of  a  broad-brimmed  gray  liat ;  he  seemed  to  liave 
inherited  his  great-grandsire's  square-skirted  coat,  and  a 
waistcoat  that  extended  its  iuiincnse  fhips  to  liis  knees; 
his  brown  locks,  also,  hung  down  behind,  in  a  mode 
nnknown  to  our  times.  By  his  side  was  a  sweet  young 
damsel,  her  fair  fcatnres  sheltered  by  a  prim  little  bonnet, 
within  whicli  appeared  the  vestal  muslin  of  a  cap ;  her 
close,  long-waisted  gown,  and  indeed  her  whole  attire, 
might  liave  been  worn  by  some  rustic  beauty  who  had 
faded  half  a  century  before.  But  that  there  was  some- 
tliing  too  warm  and  life-like  in  them,  I  would  iiere  have 
compared  this  couple  to  the  ghosts  of  two  young  lovers, 
who  had  died  long  since  in  the  glow  of  passion,  and  now 
were  straying  out  of  their  graves,  to  renew  the  old  vows, 
and  shadow  forth  the  unforgoiten  kiss  of  their  cart  lily 
lips,  beside  the  moonlit  spring. 

"  Tiiee  and  I  will  rest  here  a  moment,  Miriam,"  said 
the  3'oung  man,  as  they  drew  near  the  stone  cistern,  "  for 
there  is  no  fear  tliat  the  elders  know  what  we  have  done ; 
and  this  may  be  ths  last  time  wc  shall  ever  taste  this 
water." 

Thus  speaking,  with  a  little  sadness  in  his  face,  which 
was  also  visible  in  that  of  his  companion,  he  made  her 
sit  down  on  a  stone,  and  was  about  to  place  himself  very 
close  to  her  side ;  she,  however,  repelled  him,  though  not 
unkindly. 

"Nay,  Josiah,"  said  she,  giving  him  a  timid  push  with 
her  maiden  hand,  "  thee  must  sit  farther  off,  on  that  other 
stone,  with  the  spring  between  us.  What  would  the 
sisters  say,  if  thee  were  to  sit  so  close  to  me  ?  " 

"  But  wc  are  of  the  world's  people  now,  Miriam," 
answered  Josiah. 

The  girl  persisted  in  her  prudery,  nor  did  the  youth, 


138  THE    CAXTERBIRY    PILGRIMS. 

in  fact,  seem  altogether  free  from  a  similar  sort  of  shy- 
ness; so  they  sat  apart  from  each  other,  gazing  up  the 
hilj,  where  the  moonlight  discovered  the  tops  of  a  group 
of  buildings.  While  their  attention  was  thus  occupied, 
a  party  of  travellers,  who  had  come  wearily  up  the  long 
ascent,  made  a  halt  to  retVesh  themselves  at  the  spring. 
There  were  three  men,  a  woman,  and  a  little  girl  and 
boy.  Their  attire  was  mean,  covered  with  the  dust  of 
the  sunmier's  day,  and  damp  with  the  night-dew ;  they 
all  looked  woebegone,  as  if  the  cares  and  sorrows  of  the 
world  had  made  their  steps  heavier  as  they  climbed  the 
hill ;  even  the  two  little  children  appeared  older  in  evil 
days  than  the  young  man  and  maiden  who  had  first  ap- 
proached the  sprhig. 

"Good  evening  to  you,  young  folks,"  was  the  saluta- 
tion of  the  travellers  ;  and  "  Good  evening,  friends,"  re- 
plied the  youth  and  damsel. 

"Is  that  white  building  the  Shaker  meeting-house?" 
asked  one  of  the  strangers.  "  And  are  those  the  red 
roofs  of  the  Shaker  village  'i  " 

"Friend,  it  is  the  Shaker  village,"  answered  Josiah, 
after  some  hesitation. 

The  travellers,  who,  from  the  first,  had  looked  suspi- 
ciously at  the  garb  of  these  young  people,  now  taxed  them 
with  an  intention  which  all  the  circumstances,  indeed, 
rendered  too  obvious  to  be  mistaken. 

"  It  is  true,  friends,"  replied  the  young  man,  summon- 
ing up  his  courage.  "  Miriam  and  I  have  a  gift  to  love 
each  other,  and  we  are  going  among  the  world's  people, 
to  live  after  their  fashion.  And  ye  know  that  we  do  not 
transgress  the  law  of  the  land ;  and  neither  ye,  nor  the 
elders  themselves,  have  a  right  to  hinder  us. 

"  Yet  you  think  it  expedient  to  depart  without  leave- 
taking,"  remarked  one  of  the  travellers. 


THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS.  1:39 

"Yea,  ye-a,"  said  Josiali,  reluctantly,  "because  father 
Job  is  a  very  awful  man  to  speak  with  ;  and  being  aged 
himself,  he  lias  but  little  charity  for  what  he  calls  the 
iniquities  of  the  flesli." 

"  Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "we  will  neither  use  force 
to  bring  you  back  to  the  village,  nor  will  we  betray  you 
to  the  elders.  But  sit  you  here  awhile,  and  when  you 
have  heard  what  we  shall  tell  you  of  the  world  which 
we  have  left,  and  into  which  you  are  going,  perhaps  you 
■will  turn  back  with  us  of  your  own  accord.  What  say 
you  ?  "  added  he,  turning  to  his  companions.  "  We  have 
travelled  thus  far  without  becoming  known  to  each 
other.  Shall  we  tell  our  stories,  here  by  this  pleasant 
spring,  for  our  own  pastime,  and  the  benefit  of  these 
misguided  young  lovers  ?  " 

In  accordance  with  this  proposal,  the  whole  party 
stationed  themselves  round  the  stone  cistern ;  the  two 
children,  being  very  weary,  fell  asleep  upon  the  damp 
earth,  and  the  pretty  Shaker  girl,  whose  feelings  were 
those  of  a  nun  or  a  Turkish  lady,  crept  as  close  as  pos- 
sible to  the  female  traveller,  and  as  far  as  she  well  could 
from  the  unknown  men.  The  same  person  who  had 
liitherto  been  the  chief  spokesman  now  stood  up,  waving 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  suffered  the  moonlight  to  fall  full 
upon  his  front. 

"  In  me,"  said  he,  with  a  certain  majesty  of  utterance, 
—  "  in  me,  you  behold  a  poet." 

Though  a  lithographic  print  of  this  gentleman  is  ex- 
tant, it  may  be  well  to  notice  that  he  was  noAV  nearly 
forty,  a  thin  and  stooping  figure,  in  a  black  coat,  out  at 
elbows;  notwithstandhig  the  ill  condition  of  his  attire, 
there  were  about  him  several  tokens  of  a  prciilii-.r  sort  of 
foppery,  unworthy  of  a  mature  man,  parlicularly  in  the 
arrangement  of  his  hair,  which  was  so  disposed  as  to  give 


140  THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS. 

all  possible  loftiness  mid  breadth  to  lils  forehead.  How- 
ever, he  had  an  intelligent  eye,  and,  on  the  whole,  a 
marked  countenance. 

"  A  poet !  "  repeated  the  young  Shaker,  a  little  puzzled 
how  to  understand  such  a  designation,  seldom  heard  in 
the  utilitarian  community  where  he  had  spent  his  life. 
"  0,  ay,  Miriam,  he  means  a  varse-maker,  thee  must 
know." 

This  remark  jarred  upon  the  susceptible  nerves  of  the 
poet ;  nor  could  he  help  wondering  what  strange  fatality 
iiad  put  into  this  young  man's  mouth  an  epithet,  which 
ill-natured  people  had  affirmed  to  be  more  proper  to  his 
merit  than  the  one  ass\imed  by  himself. 

"  True,  I  am  a  verse-maker,"  he  resumed,  "  but  my 
verse  is  no  more  than  the  material  body  into  which  I 
breathe  the  celestial  soul  of  thought.  Alas!  how  many 
a  pang  has  it  cost  me,  this  same  insensibility  to  the 
ethereal  essence  of  poetry,  with  which  you  have  here 
tortured  me  again,  at  the  moment  when  I  am  to  relin- 
quish my  profession  forever  !  O  Fate  !  why  hast  thou 
warred  with  Nature,  turning  all  her  higher  and  more 
perfect  gifts  to  the  ruin  of  me,  their  possessor  ?  What 
is  the  voice  of  song,  when  the  world  lacks  the  ear  of 
taste  ?  How  can  I  rejoice  in  my  strength  and  delicacy 
of  feeling,  when  they  have  but  made  great  soitows  out 
of  little  ones  ?  Have  I  dreaded  scorn  like  death,  and 
yearned  for  fame  as  others  pant  for  vital  air,  only  to 
find  myself  in  a  middle  state  between  obscurity  and 
infamy  ?  But  I  have  my  revenge  !  I  could  have  given 
existence  to  a  thousand  briglit  creations.  I  crush  them 
into  my  heart,  and  there  let  them  putrefy  !  I  shake  off 
the  dust  of  my  feet  against  my  countrymen  !  But  pos- 
terity, tracing  my  footsteps  up  this  weary  hi^l,  will  cry 
shame  upon  the  uuAvorthy  age  that  drove  one  of  the 


THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS.  Ill 

fathers  of  American  song  to  end  his  days  in  a  Shaker 
village  !  " 

During  this  harangue,  the  speaker  gesticulated  with 
great  energy ;  and,  as  poetry  is  the  natural  language  of 
passion,  there  appeared  reason  to  apprehend  his  linal 
explosion  into  an  ode  extempore.  The  reader  must 
understand  that,  for  all  these  bitter  words,  he  was  a  khid, 
gentle,  harmless,  poor  fellow  enough,  whom  Nature,  toss- 
ing her  ingredients  together  without  looking  at  her  recipe, 
had  sent  into  the  world  with  too  much  of  one  sort  of 
brain,  and  hardly  any  of  another. 

"  Friend,"  said  the  young  Shaker,  in  some  perplexity, 
"thee  seemest  to  have  met  with  great  troubles;  and, 
doubtless,  I  should  pity  them,  if  —  if  I  could  but  under- 
stand M'liat  they  were." 

"  Happy  in  your  ignorance ! "  replied  the  poet,  with 
an  air  of  sublime  superiority.  "To  your  coarser  mind, 
perliaps,  I  may  seem  to  speak  of  more  important  griefs, 
when  I  add,  what  I  had  wcllnigh  forgotten,  that  I  am 
out  at  elbows,  and  almost  starved  to  death.  At  any  rate, 
you  have  the  advice  and  example  of  one  individual  to 
warn  you  back  ;  for  I  am  come  hither,  a  disappointed 
man,  flinging  aside  the  fragments  of  my  hopes,  and  seek- 
ing shelter  in  the  calm  retreat  which  you  arc  so  anxious 
to  leave." 

"I  thank  thee,  friend,"  rejoined  the  youth,  "but  I  do 
not  mean  to  be  a  poet,  nor.  Heaven  be  praised  !  do  I 
think  Miriam  ever  made  a  varse  in  her  life.  So  we  need 
not  fear  thy  disappointments.  But,  Miriam,"  he  added, 
wdtli  real  concern,  "thee  knowest  that  the  elders  admit 
nobody  that  has  not  a  gift  to  be  useful.  Now,  what 
under  the  sun  can  they  do  with  this  poor  varse-maker  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Josiali,  do  not  thee  discourage  the  poor  man," 
said  the  girl,  in  all  simplicity  and  kindness.    "  Our  hymns 


142  THE    CANTEUBURY    PILGRIMS. 

are  very  rough,  and  perliaps  tliey  may  trust  lilm  to 
smootli  them." 

Without  noticing  this  liint  of  professional  employment, 
the  poet  turned  away,  and  gave  himself  u|)  to  a  sort  of 
vague  revery,  which  he  called  thought.  Sometimes  he 
watched  the  moon,  pouring  a  silvery  liquid  on  the  ch)uds, 
through  which  it  slowly  melted  till  tliey  became  all 
bright ;  then  he  saw  the  same  sweet  tadiauce  danciug 
on  the  leafy  trees  which  rustled  as  if  to  shake  it  olF,  or 
sleeping  on  the  high  tops  of  hills,  or  hovering  down  in 
distant  valleys,  like  the  material  of  unshaped  dreams ; 
lastly,  he  looked  into  the  spring,  and  there  the  light  w^as 
mingling  with  the  water.  In  its  crystal  bosom,  too, 
beholding  all  heaven  reflected  thore,  he  found  an  emblem 
of  a  pure  and  tranquil  breast.  He  listened  to  that  most 
ethereal  of  all  sounds,  the  song  of  crickets,  coming  in 
full  choir  upon  the  wind,  and  fancied  that,  if  moonlight 
could  be  heard,  it  would  sound  just  like  that.  Finally, 
he  took  a  draught  at  the  Shaker  spring,  and,  as  if  it 
were  the  true  Cast  alia,  was  forthwith  moved  to  compose 
a  lyric,  a  Farewell  to  his  Harp,  which  he  swore  should 
be  its  closing  strain,  the  last  verse  that  an  ungrateful 
world  should  have  from  him.  This  effusion,  with  two  or 
three  other  little  pieces,  subsequently  written,  he  took 
the  first  opportunity  to  send,  by  one  of  the  Shaker  breth- 
ren, to  Concord,  where  they  were  published  in  the  New 
Hampshire  Patriot. 

Meantime,  another  of  the  Canterbury  pilgrims,  one  so 
different  from  the  poet  that  the  delicate  fancy  of  the 
latter  could  hardly  have  conceived  of  him,  began  to  re- 
late his  sad  experience.  He  was  a  small  man,  of  quick 
and  unquiet  gestures,  about  fifty  years  old,  with  a  narrow 
forehead,  all  wrinkled  and  drawn  together.  He  held  in 
his  hand  a  pencil,  and  a  card  of  some  commission-mer- 


THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS.  143 

chant  in  foreign  parts,  on  the  back  of  wliicli,  for  there 
was  light  enough  to  read  or  write  by,  he  seemed  ready 
to  figure  out  a  calculation. 

"Young  man,"  said  lie,  abruptly,  "what  quantity  of 
land  do  the  Shakers  own  here,  in  Canterbury  'r " 

"That  is  more  than  I  can  tell  thee,  friend,"  answered 
Josiah,  "but  it  is  a  very  rich  establishment,  and  for  a 
long  way  by  the  roadside  thee  may  guess  the  laud  to  be 
ours,  by  the  neatness  of  tlie  fences." 

"And  what  may  be  the  value  of  the  whole,"  continued 
the  stranger,  "witli  all  the  buildings  and  improvenjents, 
pretty  nearly,  in  round  numbers  r  " 

"0,  a  monstrous  sum, — more  than  I  can  reckon," 
replied  the  young  Shaker. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  pilgrim,  "there  was  a  day,  and 
not  very  long  ago,  neither,  when  I  stood  at  my  counting- 
room  window,  and  watched  the  signal  flags  of  three  of 
my  own  ships  entering  the  harbor,  frouj  the  East  Indies, 
from  Liverpool,  and  from  up  the  Straits,  and  I  would 
not  have  given  the  invoice  of  the  least  of  them  for  the 
title-deeds  of  tliis  whole  Shaker  settlement.  You  stare. 
Perhaps,  now,  you  won't  believe  that  I  could  have  put 
more  value  on  a  little  piece  of  paper,  no  bigger  than  the 
palm  of  your  hand,  than  all  these  solid  acres  of  grain, 
grass,  and  pasture-land  would  sell  for  ?  " 

"I  won't  dispute  it,  friend,"  answered  Josiah,  "but  I 
know  I  had  rather  have  fifty  acres  of  this  good  land  than 
a  whole  sheet  of  thy  paper."    , 

"  You  may  say  so  now,"  said  the  ruined  merchant, 
bitterly,  "for  my  name  would  not  be  worth  the  pa])er  1 
should  write  it  on.  Of  course,  you  must  have  heard  of 
my  failure  ?  " 

And  the  stranger  mentioned  his  name,  wliich,  however 
mighty  it  might  iiavc  been  in  the  commercial  world,  the 


144  THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS. 

young  Shaker  had  never  heard  of  among  the  Canterbury 
hills. 

"  Xot  heard  of  my  failure  !  "  exclaimed  the  merchant, 
considerably  piqued.  "  Why,  it  was  spoken  of  on  'Change 
in  London,  and  from  Boston  to  New  Orleans  men  trem- 
bled in  their  shoes.  At  all  events,  I  did  fail,  and  you 
see  me  here  on  my  road  to  the  Shaker  village,  where,' 
doubtless  (for  the  Shakers  are  a  shrewd  sect),  they  will 
have  a  due  respect  for  my  experience,  and  give  me  the 
management  of  the  trading  part  of  the  conc3rn,  in  which 
case  I  think  I  can  pledge  myself  to  double  their  capital 
in  four  or  five  years.  Turn  back  with  me,  young  man ; 
for  though  you  will  never  meet  with  my  good  luck,  you 
can  hardly  escape  my  bad." 

"  I  will  not  turn  back  for  this,"  replied  Josiah,  calmly, 
''  any  more  than  for  the  advice  of  the  varse-maker,  be- 
tween whom  and  thee,  friend,  I  see  a  sort  of  likeness, 
though  I  can't  justly  say  where  it  lies.  But  Miriam  and 
I  can  earn  our  daily  bread  among  the  world's  people, 
as  well  as  in  the  Shaker  village.  And  do  we  want  any- 
thing more,  Miriam  ? " 

"  Nothing  more,  Josiah,"  said  the  girl,  quietly. 

"Yea,  Miriam,  and  daily  bread  for  some  other  little 
mouths,  if  God  send  them,"  observed  the  simple  Shaker 
lad. 

Miriam  did  not  reply,  but  looked  down  into  the  spring, 
where  she  encountered  the  image  of  her  own  pretty  face, 
blushing  within  the  prim  .little  bonnet.  The  third  pil- 
grim now  took  up  the  conversation.  He  was  a  sunburnt 
countryman,  of  tall  frame  and  bony  strength,  on  whose 
rude  and  manly  face  there  appeared  a  darker,  more  sul- 
len and  obstinate  despondency,  than  on  those  of  either 
the  poet  or  the  merchant. 

"  Well,  now,  youngster,"  he  began,  "these  folks  have 


THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS.  115 

had  tlieir  say,  so  I  '11  take  my  turn.  ^My  story  will  cut 
but  a  poor  figure  by  the  side  of  theirs ;  for  I  never  sup- 
posed that  I  could  have  a  right  to  meat  and  drink,  and 
great  praise  besides,  only  for  tagging  rhymes  together, 
as  it  seems  this  man  does;  nor  ever  tried  to  get  the  sub- 
stance of  hundreds  into  my  own  hands,  like  the  trader 
there.  When  I  was  about  of  your  years,  I  married  me 
a  wife, — just  such  a  neat  and  pretty  young  woman  as 
Miriam,  if  that 's  her  name,  —  and  all  I  asked  of  Provi- 
dence was  an  ordinary  blessing  on  the  sweat  of  my  brow, 
so  that  we  might  be  decent  and  comfortable,  and  have 
daily  bread  for  ourselves,  and  for  some  other  little  mouths 
that  we  soon  had  to  feed.  "We  had  no  very  great  pros- 
pects before  us ;  but  I  never  wanted  to  be  idle ;  and  I 
thought  it  a  matter  of  course  that  the  Lord  would  help 
mc,  because  I  was  willing  to  help  myself." 

"And  didn't  he  help  thee,  friend':'"  demanded  Josiah, 
with  some  eagerness. 

"  No,"  said  the  yeoman,  sullt'n!y  ;  "  for  then  you  would 
not  have  seen  nie  here.  I  have  h.bored  hard  for  years  ; 
and  my  means  have  been  growing  narrower,  and  my  liv- 
ing poorer,  and  my  heart  colder  and  heavier,  all  the  time; 
till  at  last  I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  set  myself  down 
to  calculate  whether  I  had  best  go  on  the  Oregon  expedi- 
tion, or  come  here  to  the  Shaker  village;  but  I  had  not 
liope  enough  left  in  me  to  begin  the  world  over  again ; 
and,  to  make  my  story  short,  here  I  am.  And  now, 
youngster,  take  my  advice,  and  turn  back;  or  else,  some 
few  years  hence,  you  '11  have  to  climb  this  hill,  with  as 
heavy  a  heart  as  mine." 

This  simple  story  had  a   strong  effect  on  the  young 

fugitives.     The    misfortunes  of  the  poet  and   merchant 

liad  won  little  sym])athy  from  their  plain  good  sense  and 

unworldly  feelings,  qualities  which  made  them  such  un- 

7  J 


14t)  THE    CAXTEllBUllY    PILGRIMS. 

prejudiced  and  inflexible  judges,  tiiat  few  men  -svould 
iiave  chosen  to  take  tiie  opinion  of  this  youth  and  maiden 
as  to  the  wisdom  or  foll}^  of  their  pursuits.  But  here  was 
one  whose  simple  wishes  had  resembled  their  own,  and 
who,  after  efforts  which  almost  gave  hiin  a  right  to  claim 
success  from  fate,  had  failed  in  accomplishing  them. 

"  But  thy  wife,  friend  ?  "  exclaimed  the  young  man. 
"  What  became  of  the  pretty  girl,  like  Miriam  r  O,  I 
am  afraid  she  is  dead  !  " 

"Yea,  poor  man,  she  must  be  dead, — she  and  tlie 
children,  too,"  sobbed  Miriam. 

The  female  pilgrim  had  been  leaning  over  the  spring, 
wherein  latterly  a  tear  or  two  might  have  been  seen  to 
fall,  and  form  its  little  circle  on  the  surface  of  the  Avater. 
She  now  looked  up,  disclosing  features  still  comely,  but 
which  had  acquired  an  expression  of  IVet fulness,  in  the 
same  long  course  of  evil  fortune  that  had  tiirown  a  sullen 
gloom  over  the  temper  of  tiie  unprosperous  yeoman. 

"  I  am  his  wife,"  said  she,  a  sliade  of  irritability  just 
perceptible  in  the  sadness  of  her  tone.  "These  poor 
little  things,  asleep  on  the  ground,  are  two  of  our  chil- 
dren. We  had  two  more,  but  God  lias  provided  better 
for  them  than  we  could,  by  taking  them  to  himself." 

"And  what  would  thee  advise  Josiah  and  me  to  do  ?  " 
asked  Mir.am,  tliis  being  the  first  question  which  she  had 
put  to  either  of  the  strangers. 

"  'T  is  a  tiling  almost  against  nature  for  a  woman  to 
try  to  part  true  lovers,"  answered  the  yeoman's  wife, 
after  a  pause ;  "  but  I  '11  speak  as  truly  to  you  as  if 
tiiese  were  my  dying  words.  Thougii  my  husband  told 
you  some  of  our  troubles,  he  did  n't  mention  the  greatest, 
and  that  which  makes  all  the  rest  so  hard  to  bear.  If 
you  and  your  sweetheart  marry,  you  '11  be  kind  and 
pleasant  to  each  other  for  a  year  or  two,  and  while  that 's 


THE    CANTERBLUY    PlLGlllMS.  147 

the  cast',  you  never  \viri  repent;  but,  h\  and  hy,  he'll 
grow  gloomy,  rougli,  and  hard  to  i)Iease,  and  you  '11  be 
peevish,  and  full  of  little  angry  lits,  and  aj)t  to  be  coni- 
plahiing  by  the  fireside,  -when  he  comes  to  rest  himself 
from  liis  troubles  out  of  doors  ;  so  your  love  will  wear 
away  by  little  and  little,  and  leave  you  miserable  at  last. 
It  has  been  so  with  us ;  and  yet  my  husband  and  1  were 
true  lovers  ouce,  if  ever  two  young  folks  were." 

As  she  ceased,  the  yeomau  and  his  wife  exchanged  a 
glance,  in  which  there  was  more  and  warmer  atlection 
than  they  had  supposed  to  have  escaped  the  frost  of  a 
wintry  fate,  in  either  of  their  breasts.  At  that  moment, 
when  they  stood  on  the  utmost  verge  of  married  life,  one 
word  fitly  spoken,  or  })erha])s  one  })eculiar  look,  had  they 
had  mutual  confidence  enough  to  reciprocate  it,  might 
have  renewed  all  their  old  feelings,  and  sent  them  back, 
resolved  to  sustain  each  other  amid  the  struggles  of  the 
world.  But  the  crisis  passed,  and  never  came  again. 
Just  then,  also,  the  children,  roused  by  their  mother's 
voice,  looked  up,  and  added  their  wailing  accents  to  the 
testimony  borne  by  all  the  Canterbury  pilgrims  against 
the  world  from  winch  they  fled. 

"  We  are  tired  and  hungry  !  "  cried  they.  "  Is  it  far 
to  the  Shaker  viUage  ?  " 

The  Shaker  youth  and  maiden  looked  mournfully  into 
each  other's,  eyes.  They  had  but  stepped  across  the 
threshold  of  their  homes,  when  lo  !  the  dark  array  of 
cares  and  sorrows  that  rose  up  to  warn  them  ])ack.  The 
varied  narratives  of  the  strangers  had  arranged  them- 
selves into  a  parable  ;  they  seemed  not  nierely  instances 
of  woful  fate  that  had  befallen  others,  but  shadowy 
omens  of  disappohited  hope  and  unavailing  toil,  domes- 
tic grief  and  estranged  ali'ection,  that  would  cloud  the 
onward  path  of  these  poor  fugitives.     But  after  one  in- 


148  THE    CANTERBURY    PILGRIMS. 

slant's  hesitation,  tliev  opened  tlieir  arms,  and  sealed 
tlieir  resolve  witli  as  pure  and  fond  an  embrace  as  ever 
youthful  love  had  hallowed. 

"  We  will  not  go  back,"  said  they.  "The  -world  never 
can  be  dark  to  us,  for  we  will  always  love  one  another." 

Then  the  Canterbury  pilgrims  went  up  the  iiill,  while 
the  poet  chanted  a  drear  and  desperate  stanza  of  tha 
Farewell  to  his  Harp,  titling  music  for  that  melancholy 
band.  They  sought  a  liome  where  all  former  ties  of 
nature  or  society  would  be  sundered,  and  all  old  distinc- 
tions levelled,  and  a  cold  and  passionless  security  be  sub- 
stituted for  mortal  hope  and  fear,  as  in  that  other  refuge 
of  the  world's  weary  outcasts,  the  grave.  The  lovers 
drank  at  the  Shaker  spring,  and  then,  with  chastened 
hopes,  but  more  confiding  atFections,  went  on  to  mingle 
in  an  untried  Ufe. 


PI 

M 

^^ 

^Sl 

^g 

^ 

^fel 

^^1 

OLD   NEWS. 


!?^ 


ERE  is  a  volume  of  what  were  once  newspapers, 
each  on  a  small  half-sheet,  yellow  and  time- 
stained,  of  a  coarse  fabric,  and  imprinted  witii 
a  rude  old  type.  Their  aspect  conveys  a  singular  im- 
pression of  antiquity,  in  a  species  of  literature  which  we 
are  accustomed  to  consider  as  connected  only  with  the 
present  moment.  Ephemeral  as  they  were  intended  and 
supposed  to  be,  they  have  long  outlived  the  ])rinter  and 
his  whole  sub.scription-list,  and  have  proved  more  durable, 
as  to  their  pliysical  existence,  than  most  of  the  timber, 
bricks,  and  stone  of  the  town  where  they  were  issued. 
These  are  but  the  least  of  their  t-riuinphs.  The  govern- 
ment, the  interests,  the  opinions,  in  short,  all  the  moral 
circumstances  that  were  contemporary  with  their  publica- 
tion, have  passed  away,  and  left  no  better  record  of  what 
they  were  timn  may  be  found  in  these  frail  leaves.  Happy 
are  the  editors  of  newspapers  !  Tiieir  productions  excel 
all  others  in  immediate  popularity,  and  are  certain  to 
acquire  another  sort  of  value  with  llu?  lapse  of  time. 
They  scatter  their  leaves  to  the  wind,  as  the  sibyl  did, 
and  posterity  collects  them,  to  be  treasured  nj)  among 
the  best  materials  of  its  wisdom.  With  hasty  pens  they 
write  for  innnortalitv. 


150  OLD    NEWS. 

It  is  pleasant  to  take  one  of  these  little  clingy  lialf- 
slieets  between  the  thumb  and  finger,  and  picture  forth 
the  personage  who,  above  ninety  years  ago,  held  it,  wet 
from  the  press,  and  steaming,  before  the  fire.  Many  of 
tha  numb^^rs  bear  the  name  of  an  old  colonial  dignitary. 
There  he  sits,  a  major,  a  member  of  the  council,  and  a 
weighty  merchant,  in  his  high-backed  arm-chair,  wearing 
a  solemn  wig  and  grave  attire,  such  as  b^fiis  his  imposing 
gravity  of  mien,  and  displaying  but  little  finery,  except  a 
huge  pair  of  silver  shoe-buckles,  curiously  carved.  Ob- 
serve the  awful  reverence  of  his  visage,  as  he  reads  his 
Majesty's  most  gracious  speech ;  and  the  deliberate  wis- 
dom with  which  he  ponders  over  some  paragraph  of  pro- 
vincial politics,  and  the  keener  intelligence  with  which  he 
glances  at  the  ship-news  and  commercial  advertisements. 
Observe,  and  smile  !  He  may  have  been  a  wise  man  in 
his  day;  but,  to  us,  the  wisdom  of  the  politician  appears 
like  folly,  because  we  can  compare  its  prognostics  with 
actual  results ;  and  the  old  merchant  seems  to  have 
busied  himself  about  vanities,  because  we  know  that  tlie 
expected  ships  have  been  lost  at  sea,  or  mouldn-ed  at  the 
wharves ;  that  his  imported  broadcloths  were  long  ago 
worn  to  tatters,  and  his  cargoes  of  wine  quaffed  to  the 
lees ;  and  that  the  most  precious  leaves  of  his  ledger  have 
become  waste-paper.  Yet,  his  avocations  were  not  so  vain 
as  our  philosophic  moralizing.  In  this  world  we  are  the 
things  of  a  moment,  and  are  made  to  pursue  momentary 
things,  with  here  and  there  a  thought  that  stretches  mist- 
ily towards  eternity,  and  perhaps  may  endure  as  long. 
All  philosophy  that  would  abstract  mankind  from  the 
present  is  no  more  than  words. 

The  first  pages  of  most  of  these  old  papers  are  as  so- 
porific as  a  bed  of  poppies.  Here  we  have  an  erudite 
clergy uian,  or  perhaps  a  Cambridge  professor,  occupying 


OLD    NEWS.  151 

several  successive  weeks  witli  a  criticism  on  Tate  and 
Brady,  as  compared  witii  tlie  New  England  version  of  the 
Psalms.  Of  course,  tiie  preference  is  given  to  the  native 
article.  Here  are  doctors  disagreeing  about  the  treatment 
of  a  putrid  fev'cr  then  prevalent,  and  blackguarding  each 
other  with  a  cliaracteristic  virulence  that  renders  the  con- 
troversy not  altogether  unreadable.  Here  are  President 
VVigglesworth  and  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cohnan,  endeavoring  to 
raise  a  fund  for  the  support  of  missionaries  among  tiie 
Indians  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Easy  would  be  tlie  duties 
of  sucli  a  mission  now  !  Here  —  for  there  is  nothing  new 
under  the  sun  —  are  frequent  complaints  of  the  disor- 
dered state  of  the  currency,  and  the  ])roject  of  a  bank 
with  a  capital  of  five  hundred  thousand  jxmnds,  secured 
on  lands.  Here  are  literary  essays,  from  the  Gontlcman's 
Magazine;  and  squibs  against  the  Pretender,  from  the 
London  newspajjers.  And  here,  occasionally,  are  speci- 
mens of  New  England  iiumor,  laboriously  light  and  la- 
mentably mirthful,  as  if  some  very  sober  j)crson,  in  his 
zeal  to  be  merry,  were  dancing  a  jig  to  the  tune  of  a 
funeral-psalm.  All  this  is  wearisome,  and  we  must  turn 
the  leaf. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  amusement,  and  some  profit, 
in  the  perusal  of  those  little  items  which  characterize  the 
manners  and  circumstances  of  the  country.  New  Eng- 
land was  then  in  a  state  incomparably  more  picturesque 
than  at  present,  or  than  it  has  been  within  the  memory 
of  man  ;  there  being,  as  yet,  only  a  narrow  strij)  of  civili- 
zation along  the  edge  of  a  vast  forest,  peopled  with 
enough  of  its  original  race  to  contrast  the  savage  life 
with  the  old  customs  of  another  world.  The  white  pop- 
ulation, also,  was  diversified  by  the  influx  of  all  sorts  of 
expatriated  vagabonds,  and  by  the  continual  importation 
of  bond-servants   from    Ireland   and   elsewhere,  so  that 


152  OLD    NEWS. 

there  was  a  wild  and  unsettled  multitude,  forming  a 
strong  minority  to  the  sober  descendants  of  the  Puritans. 
Then,  there  were  the  slaves,  contributing  their  dark  shade 
to  the  picture  of  society.  The  consequence  of  all  this 
was  a  great  variety  and  singularity  of  action  and  incident, 
many  instances  of  which  might  be  selected  from  these 
columns,  where  they  are  told  with  a  simplicity  and  quaint- 
ness  of  style  that  bring  the  striking  points  into  very 
strong  relief.  It  is  natural  to  suppose,  too,  that  these 
circumstances  affected  the  body  of  the  people,  and  made 
their  course  of  life  generally  less  regular  than  tiiat  of 
their  descendants.  Tliere  is  no  evidence  that  the  moral 
standard  was  higher  then  than  now;  or,  indeed,  that 
morality  was  so  well  defined  as  it  has  since  become. 
There  seem  to  have  been  quite  as  many  frauds  and  rob- 
beries, in  proportion  to  the  number  of  honest  deeds ; 
there  were  murders,  in  hot -blood  and  in  malice ;  and 
bloody  quarrels  over  liquor.  Some  of  our  fathers  also 
appear  to  have  been  yoked  to  unfaithful  wives,  if  we  may 
trust  the  frequent  notices  of  elopements  from  bed  and 
board.  The  pillory,  the  whipping-post,  the  prison,  and 
the  gallows,  each  had  their  use  in  those  old  times ;  and, 
in  short,  as  often  as  our  imagination  lives  in  the  past,  we 
find  it  a  ruder  and  rougher  age  than  our  own,  with  hardly 
any  perceptible  advantages,  and  much  that  gave  life  a 
gloomier  tinge. 

In  vain  we  endeavor  to  throw  a  sunny  and  joyous  air 
over  our  picture  of  this  period  ;  nothing  passes  before  our 
fancy  but  a  crowd  of  sad-visaged  people,  moving  duskily 
through  a  dull  gray  atmosphere.  It  is  certain  that  win- 
ter rushed  upon  them  with  fiercer  storms  than  now, 
blocking  up  the  narrow  forest-paths,  and  overwhelming 
the  roads  along  the  sea-coast  with  mountain  snow- 
drifts ;  so  that  weeks  elapsed  before  the  newspaper  could 


OLD    NEWS.  153 

announce  how  many  travellers  had  perished,  or  what 
wrecks  had  strewn  the  shore.  The  cold  was  more 
piercing  tlien,  and  lingered  further  into  the  spring,  mak- 
ing the  chimney-corner  a  comfortable  seat  till  long  past 
May-day.  By  the  number  of  such  accidents  on  record, 
we  might  suppose  that  the  thunder-stone,  as  they  termed 
it,  fell  oftener  and  deadlier  on  steeples,  dwellings,  and 
unsheltered  wretches.  In  fine,  our  fathers  bore  the  brunt 
of  more  raging  and  pitiless  elements  than  we.  Tliere 
were  forebodings,  also,  of  a  more  fearful  tempest  than 
those  of  the  elements.  At  two  or  three  dates,  we  have 
stories  of  drums,  trumpets,  and  all  sorts  of  martial  music, 
passiiig  athwart  the  midnight  sky,  accompanied  witl\  the 
roar  of  cannon  and  rattle  of  musketry,  ])roplietic  echoes 
of  the  sounds  that  were  soon  to  shake  the  land.  Besides 
these  airy  prognostics,  there  were  rumors  of  French  fleets 
on  the  coast,  and  of  the  march  of  French  and  Indians 
through  the  wilderness,  along  the  borders  of  tlie  settle- 
ments. Tlie  country  was  saddened,  moreover,  with 
grievous  sickness,  Tiie  small-pox  raged  in  many  of  the 
towns,  and  seems,  tliough  so  familiar  a  scourge,  to  have 
been  regarded  with  as  much  affright  as  that  wliich  drove 
the  throng  from  Wall  Street  and  Broadway  at  the  ap- 
proach of  a  new  pestilence.  There  were  autumnal  fevers 
too,  and  a  contagious  and  destructive  throat-distemper,  — 
diseases  unwritten  in  medical  books.  The  dark  super- 
stition of  former  days  had  not  yet  been  so  far  dispelled 
as  not  to  heigliten  the  gloom  of  the  present  times.  There 
is  an  advertisement,  indeed,  by  a  committee  of  the  Lcgis- 
lattire,  calling  for  information  as  to  the  circumstances  of 
sufferers  in  the  "late  calamity  of  1092,"  with  a  view  to 
reparation  for  their  losses  and  misfortunes.  But  the 
tenderness  with  which,  after  above  forty  years,  it  Avas 
tiiought  expedient  to  allude  to  the  witchcraft  delusion, 
7* 


154  OLD    NEWS. 

indicates  a  good  deal  of  lingering  error,  as  well  as  the 
adrance  of  more  enlightened  opinions.  The  rigid  hand 
of  Puritanism  might  vet  be  felt  upon  the  reins  of  govern- 
mant,  while  some  of  the  ordinances  intimate  a  disorderly 
spirit  on  the  part  of  the  people.  The  SulFolk  justices, 
after  a  preamble  that  great  disturbances  have  been  com- 
mitted bv  parsons  entering  town  and  leaving  it  in  coaches, 
chaises,  calashes,  and  other  wheel-carriages,  on  the  even- 
ing before  the  Sabbath,  give  notice  that  a  watch  will 
hereafter  be  set  at  the  ''fortification-gate,"  to  prevent 
these  outragas.  It  is  amusing  to  see  Boston  assuming 
the  aspact  of  a  walled  city,  guarded,  probably,  by  a  de- 
tachment of  church-membei-s,  with  a  deacon  at  their 
head.  Governor  Belchar  makes  proclamation  against 
certain  "  loose  and  dissolute  people "  who  have  been 
wont  to  stop  passengars  in  the  streets,  on  the  Fifth  of 
November,  "  otherwisa  called  Pope's  Day,"  and  levy  con- 
tributions for  the  building  of  bonfires.  In  this  instance, 
the  populace  are  more  puritanic  than  the  magistrate, 

Tlie  elaborate  solemnities  of  funerals  were  in  accord- 
ance with  the  sombre  character  of  the  times.  In  cases 
of  ordinary  death,  the  printer  seldom  fails  to  notice  that 
the  corpse  was  "very  decently  interred."  But  wlien 
some  mightier  mortal  has  yielded  to  his  fate,  the  decease 
of  the  "worshipful"  such-a-onc  is  announced,  with  all 
his  titles  of  deacon,  justice,  counsellor,  and  colonel;  then 
follows  an  heraldic  sketch  of  his  honorable  ancestors,  and 
lastly  an  account  of  the  black  pomp  of  liis  funeral,  and 
the  liberal  expenditure  of  scarfs,  gloves,  and  mourning- 
rings.  The  burial  train  glides  slowly  before  us,  as  wc 
have  seen  it  represented  in  the  woodcuts  of  that  day, 
the  coffin,  and  the  bearers,  and  the  lamentable  friends, 
trailing  their  long  black  garments,  while  grim  Death,  a 
most  misshapen  skeleton,  with  all  kinds  of  doleful  em- 


OLD  ^■Ews.  155 

blenis,  stalks  hideously  in  front.  There  was  a  coach- 
maker  at  this  period,  one  John  Lucas,  \vho  seems  to 
have  gained  the  chief  of  his  living  by  letting  out  a  sable 
coach  to  funerals. 

It  would  not  be  fair,  however,  to  leave  quite  so  dismal 
an  impression  on  the  reader's  mind  ;  nor  should  it  be 
forgotten  that  happiness  nuiy  walk  soberly  in  dark  atlirc, 
as  well  as  dance  lightsomely  in  a  gala-dress.  And  this 
reminds  us  that  there  is  an  incidental  notice  of  the 
"  dancing-school  near  the  Orange-Tree,"  whence  we  may 
infer  that  the  saltatory  art  was  occasionally  practised, 
though  perhaps  chastened  into  a  characteristic  gravity  of 
movement.  This  pastime  was  probably  confined  to  the 
aristocratic  circle,  of  which  the  royal  governor  was  the 
centre.  But  we  are  scandalized  at  the  attempt  of  Jona- 
than Furness  to  introduce  a  more  reprehensible  amuse- 
ment: he  challenges  the  whole  country  to  match  his 
black  gelding  in  a  race  for  a  hundred  pounds,  to  be 
decided  on  Metonomy  Common  or  Chelsea  Beach.  Noth- 
ing as  to  the  manners  of  the  times  can  be  inferred  from 
this  freak  of  an  individual.  There  were  no  daily  and 
continual  opportunities  of  being  merry;  but  sometimes 
the  people  rejoiced,  in  their  own  peculiar  fashion,  oftcner 
with  a  calm,  religious  smile  than  with  a  broad  laugh,  as 
when  they  feasted,  like  one  great  family,  at  Thanksgiving 
time,  or  indulged  a  livelier  mirth  throughout  the  pleasant 
days  of  Election-week.  This  latter  was  the  true  holiday 
season  of  New  England.  ^Military  musters  were  too 
seriously  important  in  that  warlike  time  to  be  classed 
among  amusements;  but  tliey  stirred  up  and  enlivened 
the  public  mind,  and  were  occasions  of  solemn  festival 
to  the  governor  and  great  men  of  the  province,  at  the 
expense  of  the  fiold-officers.  The  Revolution  blotted  a 
feast-day  out  of  our  calendar ;  for  the  anniversary  of  the 


156  OLD    XEWS. 

king's  birtli  appears  to  have  beeu  celebrated  with  most 
imposing-  pomp,  by  salutes  from  Cistle  William,  a  miU- 
tary  parade,  a  grand  dinner  at  the  town-house,  and  a 
brilliant  illumination  in  the  evening.  There  was  nothing 
forced  nor  feigned  in  these  testimonials  of  loyalty  to 
Gsorge  the  Second.  So  long  as  they  dreaded  the  re-es- 
tablislunent  of  a  popish  dynasty,  the  people  were  fervent 
for  the  house  of  Hanover :  and,  besides,  the  immediate 
magistracy  of  the  country  was  a  barrier  between  the 
monarch  and  the  occasional  discontents  of  the  colonies ; 
the  waves  of  faction  sometimes  reached  the  governor's 
chair,  but  never  swelled  against  the  throne.  Thus,  un- 
til oppression  was  felt  to  proceed  from  the  king's  own 
hand,  Xew  England  rejoiced  with  her  whole  heart  on  his 
Majesty's  birthday. 

But  the  slaves,  we  suspect,  were  the  merriest  part  of 
the  population,  since  it  was  their  gift  to  be  merry  iu 
the  worst  of  circumstances  ;  and  they  endured,  compara- 
tively, few  hardships,  under  the  domestic  sway  of  our 
fathers.  There  seems  to  have  been  a  great  trade  in 
these  human  commodities.  No  advertisements  are  more 
frequent  than  those  of  "  a  negro  fellow,  fit  for  almost 
any  household  work  "  ;  "a  negro  wonmn,  honest,  healthy, 
and  capable  " ;  "a  negro  wench  of  many  desirable  quali- 
ties " ;  "a  negro  man,  very  fit  for  a  taylor."  We 
know  not  in  what  this  natural  fitness  for  a  taUor  con- 
sisted, unless  it  were  some  peculiarity  of  conformation 
that  enabled  him  to  sit  cross-legged.  When  the  slaves 
of  a  family  were  inconveniently  prolific,  —  it  being  not 
quite  orthodox  to  dro\\m  the  superfluous  offspring,  like  a 
litter  of  kittens,  — notice  was  promulgated  of  "a  negro 
child  to  be  given  away."  Sometimes  the  slaves  assumed 
the  property  of  their  own  persons,  and  made  their  escape ; 
among  many  such  instances,  the  governor  raises  a  hue- 


OLD    NEWS.  157 

and-crv  after  liis  negro  Juba.  But,  without  venturing  a 
word  in  extenuation  of  tlic  general  system,  we  confess 
our  opinion  that  Cffisar,  Pompey,  Scipio,  and  all  such 
great  Roman  namesakes,  would  have  been  better  advised 
had  they  stayed  at  home,  foddering  the  cattle,  cleaning 
dishes,  — in  fine,  performing  tlieir  moderate  share  of  the 
labors  of  life,  Avithout  being  iiarassed  by  its  cares.  Tlie 
sable  inmates  of  the  mansion  were  not  excluded  from  the 
domestic  affections :  in  families  of  middling  rank,  they 
had  their  places  at  the  board ;  and  when  tiie  circle  closed 
round  the  evening  hearth,  its  bkize  glowed  on  their  dark 
sliining  faces,  intermixed  familiarly  with  their  master's 
children.  It  must  have  contributed  to  reconcile  tliem  to 
their  lot,  that  they  saw  wliite  men  and  women  imimrted 
from  Europe  as  they  had  been  from  Africa,  and  sold, 
though  only  for  a  term  of  years,  yet  as  actual  slaves  to 
the  liighest  bidder.  Slave  labor  being  but  a  suiall  part 
of  the  industry  of  the  country,  it  did  not  change  the 
cliaracter  of  the  people;  the  latter,  on  the  contrary, 
modified  and  softened  the  institution,  nuiking  it  a  patri- 
archal, and  almost  a  beautiful,  peculiarity  of  the  times. 

Ah !  We  had  forgotten  the  good  old  merchant,  over 
whose  shoulder  we  were  peeping,  while  he  read  the 
newspaper.  Let  us  now  suppose  him  putting  on  his 
three-cornered  gold -laced  hat,  grasping  his  cane,  with  a 
head  inlaid  of  ebony  and  mother-of-pearl,  and  setting 
forth,  through  the  crooked  streets  of  13oston,  on  various 
errands,  suggested  by  the  advertisements  of  the  day. 
Thus  he  communes  with  himself:  I  must  be  mindful, 
says  he,  to  call  at  Captain  Scut's,  in  Creek  Lane,  and 
examine  his  rich  velvet,  whether  it  be  fit  for  my  apparel 
on  Election-day, — that  I  may  wear  a  stately  as|)ect  in 
presence  of  the  governor  and  my  brethren  of  the  council. 
I  will  look  in,  also,  at  the  shop  of  Micliacl  Cario,  the 


158  OLD    NEWS. 

jeweller :  he  has  silver  buckles  of  a  new  fashion ;  and 
mine  have  lasted  me  some  half-score  years.  My  fair 
daughter  Miriam  shall  have  an  apron  of  gold  brocade, 
and  a  velvet  mask, — though  it  would  be  a  pity  the 
wench  should  hide  her  couiely  visage  ;  and  also  a  Erench 
cap,  from  Robert  Jenkins's,  on  the  north  side  of  the 
town-house.  He  hath  beads,  too,  and  ear-riugs,  aud 
necklaces,  of  all  sorts ;  these  are  but  vanities,  neverthe- 
less, they  would  please  the  silly  maiden  well.  My  dame 
desireth  another  female  in  the  kitchen;  wherefore,  I 
must  inspect  the  lot  of  Irish  hisses,  for  sale  by  Sauiucl 
Waldo,  aboard  the  schooner  Endeavor ;  as  also  the  Ukely 
negro  weuch,  at  Captain  BuLfiuch's.  It  were  not  amiss 
that  I  took  my  daughter  Miriaui  to  see  the  royal  wax- 
work, near  the  town-dock,  that  she  may  learn  to  honor 
our  most  gracious  King  and  Queen,  and  their  royal 
progeny,  even  in  their  waxen  images ;  not  that  I  would 
approve  of  image-worship.  The  camel,  too,  that  strange 
beast  from  Africa,  witli  two  great  humps,  to  be  seen  near 
the  Comuion ;  methinks  I  would  fain  go  thither,  and  see 
liow  the  old  patriarchs  were  wont  to  ride.  I  will  tarry 
awhile  in  Queen  Street,  at  the  bookstore  of  my  good 
friends  Kneeland  &  Green,  and  purchase  Dr.  Colman's 
new  sermon,  and  the  volume  of  discourses  by  Mr.  Hen  it 
Elynt;  and  look  over  the  controversy  on  baptism,  be- 
tween the  Rev.  Peter  Clarke  and  an  unknown  adversary ; 
and  see  whether  this  George  Whitefi3ld  be  as  great  in 
print  as  he  is  famed  to  be  in  the  pulpit.  By  that  time, 
the  auction  will  have  comtnenced  at  the  Royal  Exchange, 
in  King  Street.  Moreover,  I  must  look  to  the  dis])osul 
of  my  last  cargi  of  West  India  rum  and  nuiscovad.) 
sugar;  and  also  the  lot  of  choice  Cheshire  cheese,  lest 
it  grow  mouldy.  It  were  well  that  I  ordered  a  cask  of 
good  English  beer,  at  the  lower  end  of  Milk  Street. 


OLD    NEWS.  159 

Then  am  I  to  speak  with  certain  dealers  about  the  lot  of 
stout  old  Yidouia,  rich  Canary,  and  Oporto  wines,  which 
I  have  now  lying  in  the  cellar  of  the  Old  South  meeting- 
house. But,  a  pipe  or  two  of  the  rich  Canary  shall  be 
reserved,  that  it  may  grow  mellow  in  mine  own  wine- 
cellar,  and  gladden  my  heart  when  it  begins  to  droop 
with  old  age. 

Provident  old  gentleman  !  But,  was  he  mindful  of 
his  sepulchre  ?  Did  he  bethink  him  to  call  at  the  work- 
shop of  Timothy  Sheafl'e,  in  Cold  Lane,  and  select  such 
a  gravestone  as  would  best  please  him  ?  There  wrought 
the  man  whose  handiwork,  or  that  of  his  fellow-crafts- 
men, was  ultimately  in  demand  by  all  the  busy  multi- 
tude who  have  left  a  record  of  their  earthly  toil  in  these 
old  time-stained  papers.  And  now,  as  we  turn  over  the 
volume,  we  seem  to  be  wandering  among  the  mossy 
stones  of  a  burial-ground. 


II.     THE    OLD    FRENCH    AVAR. 

At  a  period  about  twenty  years  subsequent  to  that 
of  our  former  sketch,  we  again  attempt  a  delineation  of 
some  of  the  characteristics  of  life  and  manners  in  New 
England.  Our  text-book,  as  before,  is  a  file  of  antique 
newspapers.  The  volume  which  serves  us  for  a  writing- 
desk  is  a  folio  of  larger  dimensions  than  the  one  befon; 
described;  and  the  papers  are  generally  printed  on  a 
whole  sheet,  sometimes  with  a  supplemental  leaf  of  news 
and  advertisements.  Tliey  have  a  venerable  appearance, 
being  overspread  with  a  duskiness  of  more  than  seventy 
years,  and  discolored,  here  and  there,  with  the  deeper 


160  OLD    NEWS. 

stains  of  som:'  liquid,  as  if  tlie  contents  of  a  wineglass 
had  long  since  been  splashed  upon  the  page.  Still,  the 
old  book  conveys  an  impression  that,  when  the  separate 
numbers  were  flying  about  town,  in  the  first  day  or  two 
of  their  respective  existences,  they  might  have  been  fit 
reading  for  very  stylish  people.  Such  newspapers  could 
have  been  issued  nowhere  but  in  a  metropolis  the  centre, 
not  only  of  public  and  private  affairs,  but  of  fashion  and 
gayety.  Without  any  discredit  to  the  colonial  press, 
these  might  have  been,  and  probably  were,  spread  out  on 
the  tables  of  the  British  coffee-house,  in  King  Street,  for 
the  perusal  of  the  throng  of  officers  who  then  drank  their 
wine  at  that  celebrated  establishment.  To  interest  these 
military  gentlemen,  there  were  bulletins  of  the  war 
between  Prussia  and  Austria;  between  England  and 
France,  on  the  old  battle-plains  of  Flanders  ;  and  between 
the  same  antagonists,  in  the  newer  fields  of  the  East 
Indies,  —  and  in  our  own  trackless  woods,  wdiere  white 
men  never  trod  until  they  came  to  fight  there.  Or, 
the  travelled  American,  the  petit-maitre  of  the  colonies, 
—  the  ape  of  Loudon  foppery,  as  the  newspaper  was  the 
semblance  of  the  London  journals,  —  he,  with  his  gray 
powdered  periwig,  his  embroidered  coat,  lace  ruffles, 
and  glossy  silk  stockings,  golden-clocked,  —  his  buckles 
of  glittering  paste,  at  knee-band  and  shoe-strap, — his 
scented  handkerchief,  and  chapeau  beneath  his  arm, — 
even  such  a  dainty  figure  need  not  have  disdained  to 
glance  at  these  old  yellow  pages,  while  they  were  the 
mirror  of  passing  times.  For  his  amusement,  there  were 
essays  of  wit  and  humor,  the  light  literature  of  the  day, 
which,  for  breadth  and  license,  might  have  proceeded 
from  the  pen  of  Fielding  or  Smollet;  while,  in  other 
columns,  he  would  delight  his  imagination  with  the 
enumerated   items   of  all  sorts  of  finery,  and  with  the 


OLD    KEWS.  161 

rival  advertisements  of  half  a  dozen  porul;c-makcrs.  In 
short,  newer  manners  and  customs  liad  almost  entirely 
superseded  those  of  the  Puritans,  even  iu  their  own  city 
of  refuge. 

It  was  natural  that,  with  the  lapse  of  time  and  increase 
of  Avealth  and  population,  the  peculiarities  of  the  early 
settlers  should  have  waxed  fainter  and  fainter  througli 
the  generations  of  their  descendants,  who  also  had  been 
alloyed  by  a  continual  accession  of  emigrants  from  many 
countries  and  of  all  characters.  It  tended  to  assimilate 
the  colonial  manners  to  those  of  the  mother-country, 
that  the  commercial  intercourse  was  great,  and  that  the 
merchants  often  went  thither  in  their  ov.n  ships.  In- 
deed, almost  every  man  of  adequate  fortune  felt  a  yearn- 
ing desire,  and  even  judged  it  a  filial  duty,  at  least  once 
in  his  life,  to  visit  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  They  still 
called  it  their  own  home,  as  if  New  England  were  to 
them,  what  many  of  the  old  Puritans  had  considered  it, 
not  a  permanent  abiding-place,  but  merely  a  lodge  in 
the  wilderness,  until  the  trouble  of  the  times  should  be 
pnssed.  The  example  of  the  royal  governors  must  have 
liad  much  influence  on  the  manners  of  the  colonists;  for 
these  rulers  assumed  a  degree  of  state  and  splendor 
which  had  never  been  practised  by  their  predecessors, 
who  ditfered  in  nothing  from  republican  chief-magistrates, 
under  the  old  charter.  The  officers  of  the  crown,  the 
public  characters  in  the  interest  of  the  administration, 
and  the  gentlemen  of  wealth  and  good  descent,  generally 
noted  for  their  loyalty,  would  constitute  a  dignified  circle, 
with  the  governor  in  the  centre,  bearing  a  very  passnble 
reseinblance  to  a  court.  Tiieir  ideas,  tlieir  habits,  their 
code  of  courtesv,  and  their  dress  would  have  all  the 
fresh  glitter  of  fashions  immediately  derived  from  the 
fountain-head,  iu  England.     To  prevent  their  modes   of 


162  OLD    NEWS. 

life  from  becoming  the  standard  with  all  who  had  the 
ability  to  imitate  them,  there  was  no  longer  an  undue 
severity  of  religion,  nor  as  yet  any  disaffection  to  Brit- 
ish supremacy,  nor  democratic  prejudices  against  pomp. 
Thus,  while  the  colonies  were  attaining  that  strength 
which  was  soon  to  render  them  an  independent  republic, 
it  might  have  been  supposed  that  the  wealthier  classes 
were  growing  into  an  aristocracy,  and  ripening  for  hered- 
itary rank,  while  the  poor  were  to  be  stationary  in  their 
abasement,  and  the  country,  perha{)S,  to  be  a  sister  mon- 
archy with  England.  Such,  doubtless,  were  the  plausi- 
ble conjectures  deduced  from  the  superficial  plienomena 
of  our  connection  with  a  monarchical  government,  until 
the  prospective  nobility  were  levelled  with  the  mob,  by 
the  mere  gathering  of  winds  that  preceded  the  storm 
of  the  Revolution.  The  portents  of  that  storm  were  not 
yet  visible  in  the  air.  A  true  picture  of  society,  there- 
fore, would  have  the  rich  effect  produced  by  distinctions 
of  rank  that  seemed  permanent,  and  by  appropriate  habits 
of  splendor  on  the  part  of  the  gentry. 

Tiie  people  at  large  had  been  somewhat  changed  in 
character,  since  the  period  of  our  last  sketch,  by  their 
great  ex})loit,  the  conquest  of  Louisburg.  After  that 
event,  the  New-Euglanders  never  settled  into  precisely 
the  same  quiet  race  which  all  tlie  world  had  imagined 
them  to  be.  They  had  done  a  deed  of  histor}^  and  were 
anxious  to  add  new  ones  to  the  record.  They  had 
proved  themselves  powerful  enough  to  influence  tlie 
result  of  a  war,  and  were  thenceforth  called  upon,  and 
willmgly  consented,  to  join  their  strength  against  the 
enemies  of  England ;  on  those  fields,  at  least,  where  vic- 
tory would  redound  to  their  peculiar  advantage.  And 
now,  in  the  heat  of  tlie  Old  French  "War,  they  might 
well  be  termed  a  martial  people.     Every  man  was  a  sol- 


OLD    NEWS.  163 

dier,  or  the  father  or  brother  of  a  soldier ;  and  tlie  whole 
land  literally  echoed  with  the  roll  of  the  drum,  either 
beating  up  for  recruits, among  the  towns  and  villages,  or 
striknig  the  march  towards  the  frontiers.  Besides  the 
provincial  troops,  there  were  twenty-three  British  regi- 
ments in  the  northern  colonies.  The  country  has  never 
known  a  ])eriod  of  such  excitement  and  warlike  life, 
except  during  the  Revolution,  —  jjcrhaps  scarcely  then  ; 
for  that  was  a  lingering  war,  and  this  a  stirring  and 
eventful  one. 

One  would  think  that  no  very  wonderful  talent  was 
requisite  for  au  historical  novel,  when  the  rough  and  hur- 
ried paragraphs  of  these  newspapers  can  recall  the  past 
so  magically.  We  seem  to  be  waiting  in  the  street  for 
the  arrival  of  the  post-rider  —  who  is  seldom  more  than 
twelve  hours  beyond  his  time  —  with  letters,  by  way  of 
Albany,  from  the  various  departments  of  the  army.  Or, 
we  may  fancy  ourselves  in  the  circle  of  listeners,  all  with 
necks  stretched  out  towards  an  old  gentleman  in  the 
centre,  Mho  deliberately  puts  on  his  spectacles,  unfolds 
the  wet  newspaper,  and  gives  us  the  details  of  tli:^  broken 
and  contradictory  reports,  which  have  been  Hying  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  ever  since  the  courier  alighted  at  Sec- 
retary Oliver's  office.  Sometimes  we  have  an  account 
of  the  Indian  skirmishes  near  Lake  George,  and  how  a 
ranging  party  of  provincials  were  so  closely  pursued,  that 
they  threw  away  their  arms,  and  eke  tiieir  shoes,  stock- 
ings, and  breeches,  barely  reaching  the  camp  in  their 
shirts,  which  also  were  terribly  tattered  by  the  bushes. 
Then,  there  is  a  journal  of  the  siege  of  Port  Niagara,  so 
minute  that  it  almost  numbers  the  cannon-shot  and  bombs, 
and  describes  the  elfeet  of  the  latter  missiles  on  the  French 
commandant's  stone  mansion,  within  the  fortress.  In  the 
letters  of  the  provincial  ollicers,  it  is  amusing  to  observe 


16-i  OLD    NEWS. 

how  some  of  them  endeavor  to  catch  the  careless  and 
jovial  turn  of  old  campaigners.  One  gentleman  tells  us 
that  he  holds  a  brimming  glass  in,  his  hand,  intending  to 
drink  the  liealtli  of  his  correspondent,  unless  a  cannon- 
ball  should  dash  the  liquor  from  his  lips ;  in  the  midst  of 
his  letter  he  hears  the  bells  of  the  Frencli  churches  ring- 
ing, in  Quebec,  and  recollects  that  it  is  Sunday ;  where- 
upon, Hke  a  good  Protestant,  he  resolves  to  disturb  tiie 
Catholic  worsliip  bv  a  few  thirty-two  pound  shot.  While 
tliis  Avicked  man  of  war  was  thus  making  a  jest  of  relig- 
ion, his  pious  mother  had  probably  put  up  a  note,  that 
very  Sabbath-day,  desiring  the  "  prayers  of  the  congre- 
gation for  a  son  gone  a  soldiering."  We  trust,  however, 
that  there  were  some  stout  old  worthies  who  were  not 
ashanied  to  do  as  their  fathers  did,  but  went  to  prayer, 
with  tlieir  soldiers,  before  leading  them  to  battle;  and 
doubtless  fought  none  the  worse  for  that.  If  we  had 
enlisted  in  the  Old  Frencli  War,  it  should  have  been 
under  such  a  captain ;  for  we  love  to  see  a  man  keep 
the  characteristics  of  his  country.* 

These  letters,  and  other  intelhgence  from  the  army, 
are  pleasant  and  lively  reading,  and  stir  up  the  mind 
like  the  music  of  a  drum  and  fife.  It  is  less  agreeable 
to  meet  with  accounts  of  women  slain  and  scalped,  and 

*  The  contemptuous  jealousy  of  the  British  army,  from  the 
general  downwards,  was  very  galUng  to  the  provincial  troops. 
In  one  of  the  newspapers,  there  is  an  admirable  letter  of  a  New 
England  man,  copied  from  the  London  Chronicle,  defending 
the  provincials  with  an  ability  worthy  of  Franklin,  and  some- 
what in  his  style.  The  letter  is  remarkable,  also,  because  it  takes 
up  the  cause  of  the  whole  range  of  colonics,  as  if  the  writer 
looked  upon  them  all  as  constituting  one  country,  and  that  his 
own.  Colonial  patriotism  had  not  hitherto  been  so  broad  a 
sentiment. 


OLD    NEWS.  1(35 

infants  dashed  against  trees,  by  the  Indians  on  the  fron- 
tiers. It  is  a  striicing  circumstance,  that  innumerable 
bears,  driven  from  the  woods,  by  the  uproar  of  coutend- 
ing  armies  in  their  accustomed  haunts,  broke  into  the 
settlements,  and  committed  great  ravages  among  chil- 
dren, as  well  as  sheep  and  swine.  Some  of  them  prowled 
■where  bears  had  never  been  for  a  century,  penetrating 
within  a  mile  or  two  of  Boston;  a  fact  that  gives  a  strong 
and  gloomy  impression  of  something  very  terrific  going 
on  in  the  forest,  since  these  savage  beasts  fled  townward 
to  avoid  it.  But  it  is  impossible  to  moralize  about  such 
trifles,  when  every  newspaper  contains  tales  of  military 
enterprise,  and  often  a  huzza  for  victory  ;  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  taking  of  Ticonderoga,  long  a  place  of  awe 
to  the  provincials,  and  one  of  the  bloodiest  spots  in  the 
present  war.  Nor  is  it  unpleasant,  among  whole  pages 
of  exultation,  to  find  a  note  of  sorrow  for  the  fall  of  !<omc 
brave  officer;  it  comes  wailing  in,  like  a  funeral  strain 
amidst  a  peal  of  triumph,  itself  triumphant  too.  Such 
was  the  lamentation  over  Wolfe.  Somewhere,  in  this 
volume  of  newspapers,  though  we  cannot  now  lay  our 
finger  upon  the  passage,  we  recollect  a  report  that  Gen- 
eral AYolfe  was  slain,  not  by  the  enemy,  but  by  a  shot 
from  his  own  soldiers. 

In  the  advertising  columns,  also,  vrc  are  continually 
reminded  that  the  country  was  in  a  state  of  war.  Gov- 
ernor Pownall  makes  proclamation  for  the  enlisting  of 
soldiers,  and  directs  the  militia  colonels  to  attend  to  the 
discipline  of  their  regiments,  and  the  selectmen  of  every 
town  to  replenish  their  stocks  of  ammunition.  The  maga- 
zine, by  the  way,  was  generally  kept  in  the  upper  loft  of 
the  village  meeting-house.  The  provincial  cajitains  arc 
drumming  up  for  soldiers,  in  every  newspai)or.  Sir 
Jefl^rey  Amherst  advertises  for  batteaux-mcn,  to  be  em- 


166  OLD    NEWS. 

ployed  on  the  lakes ;  and  gives  uotice  to  the  officers  of 
seven  British  regiuieuts,  dispersed  on  the  recruiting  ser- 
vice, to  rendezvous  in  Boston.  Captain  Hallowell,  of 
the  province  ship-of-war  Xing  Geoi-ge,  invites  able-bodied 
seamen  to  serve  lus  Majesty,  lor  lit'teen  pounds,  old  tenor, 
per  month.  By  the  rewards  offered,  tliere  Mould  appear 
to  have  been  frequent  desertions  from  the  New  England 
forces:  we  applaud  their  wisdom,  if  not  their  valor  or 
mtegrity.  Cannon  of  all  calibres,  gunpowder  and  balls, 
firelocks,  pistols,  swords,  and  hangers,  were  common 
articles  of  merchandise.  Daniel  Jones,  at  the  sign  of 
the  hat  and  helmet,  offers  to  supply  officers  with  scarlet 
broadcloth,  gold-lace  for  hats  and  waistcoats,  cockades, 
and  other  military  foppery,  allowing  credit  until  the  pay- 
rolls shall  be  made  up.  This  advertisement  gives  us 
quite  a  gorgeous  idea  of  a  provincial  captain  in  full 
dress. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  campaign  of  1759,  the 
British  general  informs  the  farmers  of  New  England 
that  a  regular  market  will  be  established  at  Lake  George, 
whither  they  are  invited  to  bring  provisions  and  refresh- 
ments of  all  sorts,  for  the  use  of  the  army.  '  Hence,  we 
may  form  a  singular  picture  of  petty  traffic,  far  away 
from  any  permanent  settlements,  among  the  hills  which 
border  that  romantic  lake,  with  the  solemn  woods  over- 
shadowing the  scene.  Carcasses  of  bullocks  and  fat 
porkers  are  placed  upright  against  the  huge  trunks  of 
the  trees;  fowls  hang  from  the  lower  branches,  bobbing 
against  the  heads  of  those  beneath ;  butter-firkins,  great 
cheeses,  and  brown  loaves  of  household  bread,  baked  in 
distant  ovens,  are  collected  under  temporary  shelters  or 
pine-boughs,  with  gingerbread,  and  pumpkin-pies,  per- 
haps, and  other  toothsome  dainties.  Barrels  of  cider 
and  spruce-beer  are  running  freely  into  the  wooden  can- 


OLD    NEWS.  1G7 

teens  of  the  soldiers.  Imagine  sucli  a  scene,  beneath 
the  dark  forest  canopy,  with  here  and  there  a  few  striiff- 
gling  sunbeuuis,  to  dissipate  tiie  gloom.  See  the  shrewd 
yeomen,  hagghng  with  their  scarlet-coated  customers, 
abating  somewhat  in  their  prices,  but  still  dealing  at 
monstrous  profit;  and  then  complete  the  picture  M'ith 
circumstances  that  bespeak  war  and  danger.  A  cannon 
shall  be  seen  to  belch  its  smoke  from  among  the  trees, 
against  some  distant  canoes  on  the  lake ;  the  traffickers 
shall  pause,  and  seem  to  hearken,  at  intervals,  as  if  they 
heard  the  rattle  of  musketry  or  the  shout  of  Indians  ;  a 
scout ing-i)arty  shall  be  driven  in,  with  two  or  three  faint 
and  bloody  men  among  them.  And,  in  spite  of  these 
disturbances,  business  goes  on  briskly  in  the  market  of 
the  wilderness. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  martial  character  of 
the  times  interrupted  all  pursuits  except  those  connected 
with  war.  On  the  contrary,  there  appears  to  have  been 
a  general  vigor  and  vivacity  diffused  into  the  whole 
round  of  colonial  life.  During  the  winter  of  1759,  it 
was  computed  that  about  a  thousand  sled-loads  of  coun- 
try produce  were  daily  brought  into  Boston  market.  It 
was  a  symptom  of  an  irregular  and  unquiet  course  of 
affairs,  that  innumerable  lotteries  were  projected,  ostcn- 
sil)ly  for  the  purpose  of  j)ublic  improvements,  such  as 
roads  and  bridges.  Many  females  seized  the  opportunity 
to  engage  in  business  :  as,  among  others,  Alice  Quick, 
who  dealt  in  crockery  and  hosiery,  next  door  to  Deacon 
Beautineau's;  Mary  Jackson,  who  sold  butter,  at  the 
Brazen-Head,  in  Cornhill ;  Abigail  Hiller,  who  taught 
ornamental  work,  near  the  Orange-Tree,  where  also  were 
to  be  seen  the  King  and  Queen,  in  wax-work  ;  Sarah 
Morehead,  an  instructor  in  glass-])ainting,  drawing,  and 
japanning ;  Mary  Salmon,  who  shod  horses,  at  the  South 


168  OLD    XEWS. 

End;  Harriet  Pain,  at  the  Buck  and  Glove,  and  Mrs. 
Henrietta  Maria  Caine,  at  the  Goldeu  Fan,  both  fashion- 
able iiiillincrs ;  Anna  Adams,  who  advertises  Quebec 
and  Garrick  bonnets,  Prussian  cloaks,  and  scarlet  cardi- 
nals, opposite  the  old  brick  meeting-house  ;  besides  a 
lady  at  the  head  of  a  wine  and  spirit  establishment. 
Little  did  these  good  dames  expect  to  reappsar  before  the 
])ublic,  so  long  after  they  had  made  their  last  courtesies 
behind  the  counter.  Our  great-grandmothers  were  a 
stirring  sisterhood,  and  seem  not  to  have  been  utterly 
despised  by  the  gentlemen  at  the  British  coffee-house; 
at  least,  some  gracious  bachelor,  there  resident,  gives 
public  notice  of  his  willingness  to  take  a  wife,  provided 
she  be  not  above  twenty-three,  and  possess  brown  hair, 
regular  features,  a  brisk  eye,  and  a  fortune.  Now,  this 
was  great  condescension  towards  the  ladies  of  Massachu- 
setts Bay,  in  a  threadbare  lieutenant  of  foot. 

Polite  literature  was  beginning  to  make  its  appearance. 
Pew  native  works  were  advertised,  it  is  true,  except  ser- 
mons and  treatises  of  controversial  divinity ;  nor  were 
the  English  authors  of  the  day  much  known  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic.  But  catalogues  were  frequently 
offered  at  auction  or  private  sale,  comprising  the  stand- 
ard English  books,  history,  essays,  and  poetry,  of  Queen 
Anne's  age,  and  the  preceding  century.  We  see  nothing 
in  the  nature  of  a  novel,  unless  it  be  "  The  Two  Mothers, 
price  four  coppers."  There  was  an  American  poet,  how- 
ever, of  whom  Mr.  Kettell  has  preserved  no  specimen, 
—  the  author  of  "  War,  an  Heroic  Poem  "  ;  he  publishes 
by  subscription,  and  threatens  to  prosecute  his  patrons 
for  not  taking  their  books.  We  have  discovered  a  peri- 
odical, also,  and  one  that  has  a  peculiar  claim  to  be  re- 
corded here,  since  it  bore  the  title  of  "  The  New  Eng- 
land  Magazine,"  a  forgotten  predecessor,  for  which. 


OLD    XEWS.  inO 

we  should  have  a  filial  respect,  and  take  its  excellence 
on  trust.  The  fine  arts,  too,  were  budding  into  exist- 
ence. At  the  "  old  glass  and  picture  shop,"  in  Cornliill, 
various  maps,  plates,  and  views  are  advertised,  and 
among  tliem  a  "  Prospect  of  Boston,"  a  copperplate 
engraving  of  Quebec,  and  the  effigies  of  all  the  New 
England  ministers  ever  done  in  inozzotinto.  All  these 
must  have  been  very  salable,  articles.  Oilier  ornamental 
wares  were  to  be  found  at  the  same  shop  ;  such  as  vio- 
lins, flutes,  hautboys,  musical  books,  English  and  Dutch 
toys,  and  London  babies.  About  tliis  period,  Mr.  Dip- 
per gives  notice  of  a  concert  of  vocal  and  instrumental 
music.  There  had  already  been  an  attempt  at  theatrical 
exhibitions. 

There  are  tokens,  in  every  newspaper,  of  a  style  of 
luxury  and  magnificence  which  we  do  not  usually  asso- 
ciate with  our  ideas  of  the  times.  AVlien  the  property 
of  a  deceased  person  was  to  be  sold,  we  find,  among  the 
household  furniture,  silk  beds  and  hangings,  damask 
table-cloths,  Turkey  carpels,  pictures,  pier-glasses,  mas- 
sive plate,  and  all  things  ])ro])er  for  a  noble  mansion. 
"Wine  was  more  generally  drunk  than  now,  though  by 
no  means  to  the  neglect  of  ardent  spirits.  Eor  the 
apparel  of  both  sexes,  the  mercers  and  milliners  imported 
good  store  of  fine  broadcloths,  especially  scarlet,  crimson, 
and  sky-blue,  silks,  satins,  lawns,  and  velvets,  gold  bro- 
cade, and  gold  and  silver  lace,  and  silver  tassels,  and 
silver  spangles,  until  Cornhill  shone  and  sparkled  with 
their  merchandise.  The  gaudiest  dress  permissible  by 
modern  taste  fades  into  a  Quaker-like  sobriety,  compared 
with  the  deep,  rich,  glowing  splendor  of  our  ancestors. 
Such  figures  were  almost  too  fine  to  go  about  town  on 
foot;  accordingly,  carriages  were  so  numerous  as  to 
require  a  tax  ;  and  it  is  recorded  that,  when  Governor 
8 


170  OLD    XETVS. 

Bernard  came  to  the  province,  Le  was  met  between 
Dedham  and  Boston  by  a  multitude  of  gentlemen  iu 
their  coaches  and  chariots. 

Take  my  arm,  gentle  reader,  and  come  with  me  into 
some  street,  perhaps  trodden  by  your  daily  footsteps,  but 
which  now  has  such  an  aspect  of  half-familiar  strange- 
ness, that  you  suspect  yourself  to  be  walking  abroad  in  a 
dream.  Trne,  there  are  some  brick  edifices  which  you 
remember  from  childhood,  and  which  your  father  and 
grandfather  remembered  as  well ;  but  you  are  perplexed 
by  the  absence  of  many  that  were  here  only  an  hour  or 
two  since ;  and  still  more  amazing  is  the  presence  of 
whole  rows  of  wooden  and  plastered  houses,  projecting 
over  the  sidewalks,  and  bearing  iron  figures  on  their 
fronts,  which  prove  them  to  have  stood  on  the  same  sites 
above  a  century.  "Where  have  your  eyes  been  that  you 
never  saw  them  before  ?  Along  the  ghostly  street,  —  for, 
at  length,  you  conclude  that  all  is  unsubstantial,  though 
it  be  so  good  a  mockery  of  an  antique  town,  — along  the 
ghostly  street,  there  are  ghostly  people  too.  Every 
gentleman  has  his  three-cornered  hat,  either  on  his  head 
or  under  his  arm;  and  all  wear  wigs  in  infinite  variety, 
—  the  Tie,  the  Brigadier,  the  Spencer,  the  Albemarle, 
the  Major,  the  Ramillies,  the  grave  Full-bottom,  or  the 
giddy  Feather-top.  Look  at  the  elaborate  lace-ruffles, 
and  the  square-skirted  coats  of  gorgeous  hues,  bedizened 
with  silver  and  gold  !  Make  way  for  the  phantom-ladies, 
whose  lioo])s  require  such  breadth  of  passage,  as  they 
pace  majestically  along,  in  silken  gowns,  blue,  green,  or 
yellow,  brilliantly  embroidered,  and  with  small  satin  hats 
surmounting  their  powdered  hair.  Make  way ;  for  the 
whole  spectral  show  will  vanish,  if  your  earthly  garments 
brush  against  their  robes.  Now  that  the  scene  is  bright- 
est, and  the  whole  street   glitters  with  imaginary  sun- 


OLD    NEWS.  171 

sliine,  — now  bark  to  tlic  bells  of  tbe  Old  South  and  the 
Old  Nortb,  ringing  out  witli  a  sudden  and  merry  peal, 
while  the  cannon  of  Castle  "William  thunder  below  the 
town,  and  those  of  the  Diana  frigate  repeat  the  sound, 
and  the  Charlestown  batteries  reply  with  a  nearer  roar  ! 
You  see  the  crowd  toss  up  their  iiats  in  visionary  joy. 
You  hear  of  illuminations  and  fire-works,  and  of  bonfires, 
built  on  scailolds,  raised  several  stories  above  thegnmnd, 
that  are  to  blaze  all  night  in  King  Street  and  on  Beacon 
Hill.  And  here  come  the  trumpets  and  kettle-drums, 
and  the  tramping  hoofs  of  the  Boston  troop  of  horse- 
guards,  escorting  the  governor  to  King's  Chapel,  where 
he  is  to  return  solemn  thanks  for  the  surrender  of  Quebec. 
March  on,  thou  shadowy  troop!  and  vanish,  giiostly 
crowd!  and  change  again,  old  street!  for  those  stirring 
times  are  gone. 

Opportunely  for  the  conclusion  of  our  sketch,  a  fire 
broke  out,  on  the  twentieth  of  March,  1700,  at  the 
Bra/en-IIead,  in  Cornhill,  and  consumed  nearly  four 
hundred  buildings.  Similar  disasters  have  always  been 
epochs  in  the  chronology  of  Boston.  That  of  1711  had 
hitherto  been  termed  the  Great  Fire,  but  now  resigned 
its  baleful  dignity  to  one  which  has  ever  since  retained 
it.  Did  we  desire  to  move  the  reader's  sympathies  on 
this  subject,  we  would  not  be  grandiloquent  about  the 
sea  of  billowy  flame,  the  glowing  and  crumbling  streets, 
the  broad,  black  firmament  of  smoke,  ami  the  blast  of 
wind  that  sprang  up  with  the  conflagration  and  roared 
behind  it.  It  would  be  more  cfTeelivc  to  mark  out  a 
single  family  at  the  moment  when  the  Ihimes  caught 
upon  an  angle  of  tiieir  dwelling:  then  would  ensue  the 
removal  of  the  bedridden  grandmother,  the  cradle  with 
the  sleeping  infant,  and,  most  dismal  of  all,  the  dying 
man  just  at  the  extremity  of  a  lingering  disease.      Do 


172  OLD    XEWS. 

but  imagine  the  confused  agony  of  one  thus  a"wfully 
disturbed  in  his  last  hour ;  liis  fearful  glance  beliind 
at  the  consuming  fire  raging  after  him,  from  house  to 
house,  as  its  devoted  victim ;  and,  finally,  the  almost 
eagerness  with  which  he  would  seize  some  calmer  in- 
terval to  die  !  The  Great  Fire  must  have  realizsd  many 
such  a  scene. 

Doubtless  posterity  has  acqnired  a  better  city  by  the 
calamity  of  that  generation.  None  will  be  inclined  to 
lament  it  at  this  late  day,  except  the  lover  of  antiquity, 
who  would  have  been  glad  to  walk  among  those  streets 
of  venerable  houses,  fancying  the  old  inhabitants  still 
there,  that  he  might  connnune  with  their  shadows,  and 
paint  a  more  vivid  picture  of  their  times. 


in.    THE    OLD   TORY. 

Again  we  take  a  leap  of  about  twenty  years,  and 
alight  in  the  midst  of  the  Revolution.  Indeed,  having 
just  closed  a  volume  of  colonial  newspapers,  which  repre- 
sented the  period  when  monarchical  aud  aristocratic  sen- 
timents were  at  the  highest,  —  and  now  opening  another 
volume  printed  in  the  same  metropolis,  after  such  senti- 
ments had  long  been  deemed  a  sin  and  shame,  —  we  feel 
as  if  the  leap  were  more  than  figurative.  Our  late  course 
of  reading  has  tinctured  us,  for  the  moment,  with  antique 
prejudices ;  aud  we  shrink  from  the  strangely  contrasted 
times  into  which  we  emerge,  like  one  of  those  immuta- 
ble old  Tories,  who  acknowledge  no  oppression  in  the 
Stamp  Act.  It  may  be  ihe  most  effective  method  of 
going  through  the  present  file  of  papers,  to  follow  out 


OLD    NEWS.  173 

tills  idea,  and  transform  oursclf,  percliance,  from  a  mod- 
ern Tory  into  sucli  a  sturdy  King-man  as  once  wore 
that  pliable  nickname. 

Well,  then,  here  we  sit,  an  old,  gray,  -withered,  sour- 
visaged,  threadbare  sort  of  gentleman,  erect  enough,  here 
ill  our  solitude,  but  marked  out  by  a  depressed  and  dis- 
trustful mien  abroad,  as  one  conscious  of  a  stigma  upon 
his  forehead,  though  for  no  crime.  "We  were  already  in 
the  decline  of  life  when  the  first  tremors  of  tlie  eartii- 
quake  that  has  convulsed  the  continent  Avere  felt.  Our 
mind  had  grown  too  rigid  to  change  any  of  its  opinions, 
when  the  voice  of  the  people  demanded  that  all  should  be 
changed.  We  are  an  Episcopalian,  and  sat  under  the 
Iligh-Church  doctrines  of  Dr.  Cancr;  we  have  been  a 
captain  of  the  provincial  forces,  and  love  our  king  tlie 
better  for  the  blood  that  we  shed  in  his  cause  on  the 
Plains  of  Abraham.  Among  all  the  refugees,  there  is 
not  one  more  loyal  to  the  backbone  than  we.  Still  we 
lingered  behind  when  the  British  army  evacuated  Boston, 
sweeping  in  its  train  most  of  those  with  whom  we  held 
communion;  the  old,  loyal  gentlemen,  tlie  aristocracy  of 
the  colonies,  the  liereditary  Englishman,  imbued  with 
more  than  native  zeal  and  admiration  for  the  glorious 
island  and  its  monarch,  because  the  far-intervening  ocean 
threw  a  dim  reverence  around  them.  When  our  breth- 
ren departed,  we  could  not  tear  our  aged  roots  out  of 
the  soil.  We  have  remained,  therefore,  enduring  to  be 
outwardly  a  freeman,  but  idolizing  King  George  in  se- 
crecy and  silence, —  one  true  old  lieart  amongst  a  host 
of  enemies.  We  watch,  with  a  M-cary  hope,  for  the  mo- 
ment when  all  this  turmoil  shall  subside,  and  the  impious 
novelty  that  has  distracted  our  latter  years,  like  a  wild 
dream,  give  place  to  the  blessed  quietude  of  royal  sway, 
with  the  king's  name  in  every  ordinance,  his  prayer  in 


174  OLD    NEWS. 

the  church,  liis  health  at  the  board,  and  his  love  in  the 
people's  heart.  Meantime,  our  old  age  finds  little  honor. 
Hustled  have  we  been,  till  driven  from  town-meetings ; 
dirty  water  has  been  cast  upon  our  ruffles  by  a  Wiiig 
chambermaid;  John  Hancock's  coachman  seizes  every 
opportunity  to  bespatter  us  with  mud;  daily  are  we 
hooted  by  the  uubreeched  rebel  brats ;  and  narrowly, 
once,  did  our  gray  hairs  escape  the  ignominy  of  tar  and 
feathers.  Alas  !  only  that  we  cannot  bear  to  die  till  the 
next  royal  governor  comes  over,  we  would  fain  be  in  our 
quiet  grave. 

Such  an  old  man  among  new  tilings  are  we  who  now 
hold  at  arm's-length  the  rebel  newspaper  of  the  day. 
The  very  figure-head,  for  the  thousandfh  time,  elicits  a 
groan  of  spiteful  lamentation.  Where  are  the  united 
heart  and  crown,  the  loyal  emblem,  that  used  to  hallow 
the  sheet  on  which  it  was  impressed,  in  our  younger 
days  ?  In  its  stead  we  find  a  continental  officer,  with 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  in  one  hand,  a  drawn 
sword  in  the  other,  and  above  his  head  a  scroll,  bearing 
the  motto,  "We  appeal  to  Heaven."  Then  say  we, 
with  a  prospective  trium[)h,  let  Heaven  judge,  in  its 
own  good  time  !  The  material  of  the  sheet  attracts  our 
scorn.  It  is  a  fair  specimen  of  rebel  manufacture,  thick 
and  coarse,  like  wrapping-paper,  all  overspread  with  lit- 
tle knobs ;  and  of  such  a  deep,  dingy  blue  color,  that 
w^e  wipe  our  spectacles  thrice  before  we  can  distinguish 
a  letter  of  the  wretched  ])rint.  Thus,  in  all  points,  the 
newspaper  is  a  type  of  the  times,  far  more  fit  for  the 
rough  hands  of  a  democratic  mob,  than  for  our  own 
delicate,  though  bony  fingers.  Nay  ;  we  will  not  handle 
it  without  our  gloves  ! 

Glancing  down  the  page,  our  eyes  are  greeted  every- 
where by  the  offer  of  lands  at  auction,  for  sale  or  to  be 


OLD    NEWS.  175 

leased,  not  by  the  rightful  owners,  but  a  rcl)cl  commit- 
tee; notices  of  the  town  constable,  that  he  is  autliorized 
to  receive  tlie  taxes  on  such  an  estate,  iu  default  of 
which,  that  also  is  to  be  knocked  down  to  the  liighest 
bidder;  and  notifications  of  coinplainis  filed  by  the  at- 
torney-general against  certain  traitorous  absentees,  and 
of  confiscations  that  are  to  ensue.  And  who  are  these 
traitors  ?  Our  own  best  friends  ;  names  as  old,  once  as 
honored,  as  any  in  the  land  where  they  are  no  longer  to 
have  a  patrimony,  nor  to  be  remembered  as  good  men 
who  have  passed  away.  We  are  ashamed  of  not  relin- 
quisiiiug  our  little  property,  too  ;  but  comfort  ourselves 
because  we  still  keep  our  principles,  without  gratifying 
the  rebels  with  our  plunder.  Plunder,  indeed,  they  are 
seizing  everywhere,  — by  the  strong  hand  at  sea,  as  well 
as  by  legal  forms  on  shore.  Here  are  prize-vessels  for 
sale;  no  French  nor  Spanish  merchantmen,  whose  wealth 
is  the  birthright  of  British  subjects,  l)ut  hulls  of  British 
oak,  from  Liverpool,  Bristol,  and  the  Thames,  laden  with 
the  king's  own  stores,  for  his  army  in  Xew  York.  And 
what  a  fleet  of  privateers  —  pirates,  say  we  — are  fitting 
out  for  new  ravages,  with  rebellion  in  their  very  names  ! 
The  Free  Yankee,  the  General  Green,  the  Saratoga,  the 
Lafayette,  and  the  Grand  Monarch  !  Yes,  the  Grand 
Monarch ;  so  is  a  French  king  styled,  by  the  sons  of 
Englishmen.  And  here  we  have  an  ordinance  from  the 
Court  of  Versailles,  with  the  Bourbon's  own  signature 
affixed,  as  if  New  England  were  already  a  French  prov- 
ince. Everything  is  French,  — French  soldiers,  Frencli 
sailors,  French  surgeons,  and  French  diseases  too,  1 
trow  ;  besides  French  dancing-masters  and  French  milli- 
ners, to  debauch  our  daughters  with  French  fashions! 
Everything  in  America  is  French,  except  the  Canadas, 
the    loyal  Canadas,    which   we   helped    to  wrest  from 


176  OLD    NEWS. 

France.  And  to  tliat  old  Frencli  province  the  English- 
man of  the  colonies  must  go  to  find  liis  country  ! 

0,  the  misery  of  seeing  the  Avhole  system  of  things 
clianged  in  my  old  days,  when  I  would  be  loath  to  change 
even  a  pair  of  buckles  !  The  British  coffee-house,  wliere 
oft  we  sat,  brimful  of  wine  and  loyalty,  with  the  gal- 
lant gentlemen  of  Amherst's  army,  when  we  wore  a  red- 
coat too, —  the  British  coffee-house,  forsooth,  must  now 
be  styled  the  American,  with  a  golden  eagle  instead  of 
the  royal  arms  above  the  door.  Even  the  street  it 
stands  in  is  no  longer  King  Street !  Nothing  is  the 
king's,  except  this  heavy  heart  in  my  old  bosom.  Wher- 
ever I  glance  my  eyes,  they  meet  something  that  pricks 
them  like  a  needle.  This  soap-maker,  for  instance,  this 
Hobert  Hewes,  has  conspired  against  my  peace,  by  no- 
tifying that  his  shop  is  situated  near  Liberty  Stump. 
But  when  will  their  misnamed  liberty  have  its  true 
emblem  in  that  Stump,  hewn  down  by  British  steel? 

"Where  shall  we  buy  our  next  year's  almanac?  Not 
this  of  Weatherwise's,  certainly ;  for  it  contains  a  like- 
ness of  George  Washington,  the  upright  rebel,  whom  we 
most  hate,  though  reverentially,  as  a  fallen  angel,  with 
his  heavenly  brightness  undiminished,  evincing  pure 
fame  in  an  unhallowed  cause.  And  here  is  a  new  book 
for  my  evening's  recreation,  —  a  History  of  the  War  till 
the  close  of  the  year  1779,  with  the  heads  of  thirteen 
distinguished  officers,  engraved  on  copperplate.  A  plague 
upon  their  heads  I  We  desire  not  to  see  them  till  they 
grin  at  us  from  the  balcony  before  the  town-house,  fixed 
on  spikes,  as  the  heads  of  traitors.  How  bloody-minded 
the  villains  make  a  peaceable  old  man!  What  next? 
An  Oration,  on  the  Horrid  Massacre  of  1770.  When 
that  blood  was  shed,  —  the  first  that  the  British  soldier 
ever  drew  from  the   bosoms  of  our   countrymen, — we 


OLD    NEWS.  177 

turned  sick  at  heart,  and  do  so  still,  as  often  as  they 
make  it  reek  anew  IVoni  among  the  stones  in  King 
Street.  The  pool  that  we  saw  that  night  has  swelled 
into  a  lake,  —  English  blood  and  American,  —  no  !  all 
British,  all  blood  of  my  brethren.  And  here  come  down 
tears.  Shame  on  me,  since  half  of  them  are  shed  for 
rebels  !  Who  arc  not  rebels  now  !  Even  the  women 
are  thrusting  their  white  hands  into  the  war,  and  come 
out  in  this  very  paper  with  proposals  to  form  a  society 
—  the  lady  of  George  Washington  at  their  head  —  for 
clothing  the  continental  troops.  They  will  strip  off  their 
stiff  petticoats  to  cover  the  ragged  rascals,  and  then  en- 
list in  the  ranks  themselves. 

What  have  we  here  ?  Burgoyne's  proclamation  turned 
into  Iludibrastic  rhyme!  And  here,  some  verses  against 
the  king,  in  which  the  scribbler  leaves  a  blank  for  the 
name  of  George,  as  if  his  doggerel  might  yet  exalt  him  to 
the  pillory.  Such,  after  years  of  rebellion,  is  tiie  heart's 
unconrpierable  reverence  for  the  Lord's  anointed!  In 
the  next  column,  we  have  scripture  parodied  in  a  squib 
against  his  sacred  Majesty.  What  would  our  Puritan- 
great-grandsires  have  said  to  that  ?  They  never  laughed 
at  God's  word,  though  they  cut  off  a  king's  head. 

Yes  ;  it  was  for  us  to  prove  how  disloyalty  goes  hand 
in  hand  with  irreligion,  and  all  other  vices  come  trooping 
in  the  train.  Nowadays  men  commit  robbery  and  sacri- 
lege for  the  mere  luxury  of  wickedness,  as  this  advertise- 
ment testifies.  Three  hundred  ])0uuds  reward  for  the 
detection  of  the  villains  who  stole  and  destroyed  the 
cushions  and  pulpit  drapery  of  the  Brattle  Street  and  Old 
South  churches.  Was  it  a  crime  ?  I  can  scarcely  think 
our  temples  hallowed,  since  the  king  ceased  to  be  prayed 
for.  But  it  is  not  temi)les  only  that  they  rob.  Here  a 
man  offers  a  thousand  dollars — a  thousand  dollars,  in 
8*  L 


178  OLD    NEWS. 

Coutineutal  rags  !  —  for  the  recovery  of  liis  stolen  cloak, 
and  other  articles  of  clothing.  Horse-thieves  are  innu- 
merable. Now  is  the  day  when  every  beggar  gets  on 
horseback.  And  is  not  the  whole  land  like  a  beggar  on 
horseback  riding  post  to  the  Devil  ?  Ha !  here  is  a 
murder,  too.  A  woman  slain  at  midniglit,  by  an  un- 
known rufiiin,  and  found  cold,  stiff,  and  bloody,  in  her 
violated  bed!  Let  the  hue-and-cry  follow  hard  after 
the  man  in  the  uniform  of  blue  and  butf  who  last  went 
by  that  way.  My  life  on  it,  he  is  the  blood-stained  rav- 
isher  !  These  deserters  whom  we  see  proclaimed  in  every 
column,  —  proof  that  the  banditti  are  as  false  to  their 
Stars  and  Stripes  as  to  the  Holy  Red  Cross,  —  they  bring 
the  crimes  of  a  rebel  camp  into  a  soil  well  suited  to 
them  ;  the  bosom  of  a  people,  without  the  heart  that 
kept  them  virtuous,  —  their  king ! 

Here,  flaunting  down  a  whole  column,  with  official 
seal  and  signature,  here  comes  a  proclamation.  By 
whose  authority  ?  Ah  !  the  United  States,  — these  thir- 
teen little  anarchies,  assembled  in  that  one  grand  an- 
archy, their  Congress.  And  what  the  import  ?  A 
general  Fast.  By  Heaven !  for  once  the  traitorous 
blockheads  have  legislated  wisely !  Yea ;  let  a  mis- 
guided people  kneel  down  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  from 
end  to  end,  from  border  to  border,  of  their  wasted  coun- 
try. Well  may  they  fast  where  there  is  no  food,  and  cry 
aloud  for  whatever  remnant  of  God's  mercy  their  sins 
may  not  have  exhausted.  We  too  will  fast,  even  at  a 
rebel  summons.  Pray  others  as  they  will,  there  shall  be 
at  least  an  old  man  kneeling  for  the  righteous  cause. 
Lord,  put  down  the  rebels  !     God  save  the  king ! 

Peace  to  the  good  old  Tory  !  One  of  our  objects  lias 
been  to  exemphfy,  without  softening  a  single  prejudice 
proper  to   the   character  which  we   assumed,  that  the 


OLD   NEWS.  179 

Americans  who  clung  to  tlie  losing  side  in  the  Revolu- 
tion were  men  greatly  to  be  pitied  and  often  worthy  of 
our  synjpathy.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whose  lot 
was  most  lamentable,  that  of  the  active  Tories,  who  gave 
up  their  patrimonies  lor  a  pittance  from  the  British  pen- 
sion-roll, and  their  native  land  for  a  cold  reccjUion  in 
their  miscalled  home,  or  the  passive  ones  who  remained 
behind  to  endure  the  coldness  of  former  friends,  and 
the  public  opprobrium,  as  despised  citizens,  under  a 
government  which  they  abhorred.  In  justice  to  the  old 
gentleman  who  has  favored  us  with  his  discontented 
musings,  we  must  remark  that  the  state  of  the  country, 
so  far  as  can  be  gathered  from  these  j)apers,  was  of  dis- 
mal augury  for  the  tendencies  of  democratic  rule.  It 
■was  pardonable  in  the  conservative  of  that  day  to  mis- 
take the  temporary  evils  of  a  change  for  permanent  dis- 
eases of  the  system  which  that  change  was  to  establish. 
A  revolution,  or  anything  that  interrupts  social  order, 
may  afi'ord  opportunities  for  the  individual  display  of 
eminent  virtues ;  but  its  effects  are  pernicious  to  general 
morality.  Most  people  are  so  constituted  that  they  can 
be  virtuous  only  in  a  certain  routine  ;  and  an  irregular 
course  of  public  affairs  demoralizes  them.  One  great 
source  of  disorder  was  the  multitude  of  disbanded  troops, 
who  were  continually  returning  home,  after  terms  of  ser- 
vice just  long  enough  to  give  them  a  distaste  to  peaceable 
occupations  ;  neither  citizens  nor  soldiers,  they  were  very 
liable  to  become  ruffians.  Almost  all  our  impressions  iu 
regard  to  this  period  are  unpleasant,  whether  referring 
to  the  state  of  civil  society,  or  to  the  character  of  the 
contest,  which,  especially  where  native  Americans  were 
opposed  to  each  other,  was  waged  with  the  deadly  hatred 
of  fraternal  enemies.  It  is  the  beauty  of  war,  for  meu  to 
commit  mutual  havoc  with  undisturbed  good-humor. 


180  OLD    NEWS. 

The  present  volume  of  newspapers  contains  fewer 
characteristic  traits  than  any  wliich  we  have  looked  over. 
Except  for  the  peculiarities  attendant  on  tlie  passing 
struggle,  manners  seem  to  have  taken  a  modern  cast. 
Whatever  antique  fashions  lingered  into  the  War  of  the 
Kevolution,  or  bevond  it,  they  were  not  so  strongly 
marked  as  to  leave  their  traces  in  the  public  journals. 
Moreover,  tiie  old  newspapers  had  an  indescribable  pic- 
turesqueness,  not  to  be  found  in  the  later  ones.  Whether 
it  be  something  in  tlie  Hterary  execution,  or  the  ancient 
print  and  paper,  and  the  idea  that  those  same  musty 
pages  have  been  handled  by  people  once  alive  and  bus- 
tling amid  the  scenes  there  recorded,  yet  now  in  their 
graves  beyond  the  memory  of  man  ;  so  it  is,  tliat  in  those 
elder  volumes  we  seeui  to  find  the  Ufe  of  a  past  age  pre- 
served between  the  leaves,  like  a  dry  specimen  of  foliage. 
It  is  so  difficult  to  discover  Avhat  touches  are  really  p:c- 
tiiresque,  tliat  we  doubt  whether  our  attempts  have 
produced  any  similar  effect. 


THE   MAN    OF  ADAMANT: 

AN   APOLOGUE. 

N  the  old  times  of  religious  gloom  and  intoler- 
auce  lived  Richard  Digl)y,  the  gloomiest  and 
most  intolerant  of  a  stern  brotherhood.  Ilis 
plan  of  salvation  was  so  narrow,  that,  like  a  ])lank  in  a 
tempestuous  sea,  it  could  avail  no  sinner  but  himself, 
who  bestrode  it  triumphantly,  and  hurled  anathemas 
against  the  wretches  whom  he  saw  struggling  with  the 
billows  of  eternal  death.  In  his  view  of  the  matter,  it 
was  a  most  abominable  crime  —  as,  indeed,  it  is  a  great 
folly  —  for  men  to  trust  to  their  own  strength,  or  even 
to  grapple  to  any  other  fragment  of  the  wreck,  save  this 
narrow  plank,  which,  moreover,  he  took  special  care  to 
keep  out  of  their  reach.  In  other  words,  as  his  creed 
was  like  no  man's  else,  and  being  well  ))leased  that 
Providence  had  intrusted  him  alone,  of  mortals,  with  the 
treasure  of  a  true  faith,  Kichard  Digby  determined  to 
seclude  himself  to  the  sole  and  constant  enjoyment  of 
his  happy  fortune. 

"And  verily,"  thought  he,  "  T  deem  it  a  eliief  condi- 
tion of  Heaven's  mercy  to  myself,  that  I  hold  no  com- 
munion with  those  abominable  myriads  which  it  hath  cast 
off  to  perish.     Perad venture,  were  I  to  tarry  longer  in 


182  THE    MAN    OF    ADAMANT. 

tli3  teuts  of  Kedar,  the  gracious  boon  would  be  revoked, 
aud  I  also  be  swallowed  up  in  the  deluge  of  wrath,  or 
consumed  in  the  storm  of  fire  and  brimstone,  or  involved 
in  whatever  new  kind  of  ruin  is  ordained  for  the  horrible 
perversity  of  this  gsueratiou." 

So  Richard  Digby  took  an  axe,  to  hew  space  enough 
for  a  tabernacle  in  the  wilderness,  aud  some  few  other 
necessaries,  especially  a  sword  and  guji,  to  smite  and 
slay  any  intruder  upon  his  hallowed  seclusion;  and 
plunged  into  the  dreariest  depths  of  the  forest.  On  its 
verge,  however,  he  paused  a  moment,  to  shake  off  the 
dust  of  his  feet  against  the  village  where  he  had  dwelt, 
and  to  invoke  a  curse  on  the  meeting-house,  which  he 
regarded  as  a  temple  of  heathen  idolatry.  He  felt  a 
curiosity,  also,  to  see  whether  the  fire  and  brimstone 
would  not  rush  down  from  Heaven  at  once,  now  that  the 
one  righteous  man  had  provided  for  his  own  safety. 
But,  as  the  sunshine  continued  to  fall  peacefully  on  the 
cottages  and  fields,  and  the  husbandmen  labored  and 
children  played,  and  as  there  were  many  tokens  of 
present  happiness,  and  nothing  ominous  of  a  speedy 
judgment,  he  turned  away,  somewhat  disappointed. 
The  farther  he  went,  however,  and  the  lonelier  he  felt 
himself,  and  the  thicker  the  trees  stood  along  his  path, 
and  the  darker  the  shadow  overhead,  so  much  the  more 
did  Richard  Digby  exult.  He  talked  to  himself,  as  he 
strode  onward ;  he  read  his  Bible  to  himself,  as  he  sat 
beneath  the  trees;  and,  as  the  gloom  of  the  forest  hid 
the  blessed  sky,  I  had  almost  added,  that,  at  morning, 
noon,  and  eventide,  he  prayed  to  himself.  So  congenicd 
was  this  mode  of  life  to  his  disposition,  that  he  often 
laughed  to  himself,  but  was  displeased  when  an  echo 
tossed  him  back  the  long  loud  roar. 

In  this  manner,  he  journeyed  onward  three  days  and 


THE    MAN    OF    ADAMANT.  183 

two  niglits,  and  caine,  on  the  third  cvcniii!:^,  to  the  mouth 
of  a  cave,  which,  at  first  sii^ht,  reminded  him  of  Ehjah's 
cave  at  Horeb,  thougli  perhaps  it  more  resembled  Abra- 
ham's sepulchral  cave  at  Machpehih.  It  entered  into 
the  lieart  of  a  rocicy  hill.  There  was  so  dense  a  veil  of 
tangled  foliage  about  it,  that  none  but  a  sworn  lover 
of  gloomy  recesses  would  have  discovered  the  low  arch 
of  its  entrance,  or  have  dared  to  step  within  its  vaulted 
chamber,  where  the  burning  eyes  of  a  panther  might 
encounter  him.  If  Nature  meant  this  remote  and  dismal 
cavern  for  the  use  of  man,  it  could  only  be  to  bury  in  its 
gloom  the  victims  of  a  pestilence,  and  then  to  block  up 
its  mouth  with  stones,  and  avoid  the  spot  forever  after. 
There  was  nothing  bright  nor  cheerful  near  it,  except 
a  bubbling  fountain,  some  twenty  paces  olV,  at  which 
Richard  Digby  hardly  threw  away  a  glance.  But  he 
thrust  his  head  into  the  cave,  shivered,  and  congratulated 
himself. 

"The  finger  of  Providence  halh  pointed  my  way!" 
cried  he,  aloud,  while  the  tomb-like  den  returned  a 
strange  echo,  as  if  some  one  within  were  mocking  him. 
"  Here  my  soul  will  be  at  peace  ;  for  the  wicked  will  not 
find  me.  Here  I  can  read  the  Scriptures,  and  be  no  more 
provoked  with  lying  interpretations.  Here  I  can  offer 
up  acceptable  })rayers,  because  my  voice  will  not  be  min- 
gled with  the  sinful  supplications  of  the  multitude.  Of 
a  truth,  the  only  way  to  heaven  leudcth  through  the 
narrow  entrance  of  this  cave,  —  and  I  alone  have  found 
it!" 

In  regard  to  this  cave  it  was  observable  that  the  roof, 
so  far  as  the  imperfect  light  permitted  it  to  be  seen,  was 
hung  with  substances  resembling  opaque  icicles  ;  for  tlie 
damps  of  unknown  centuries,  dripping  down  continually, 
had   become   as  hard   as   adamant ;    and  wherever   that 


IS-i  THE    :HAX    OF    ADAMAXT. 

moisture  fell,  it  seemed  to  possess  the  power  of  convert- 
ing what  it  bathed  to  stone.  The  fallen  leaves  and  sprigs 
of  foliage,  which  the  wind  had  swept  into  the  cave,  and 
the  little  feathery  shrubs,  rooted  near  the  threshold,  were 
not  wet  with  a  natural  dew,  but  had  been  embalmed  by 
this  wondrous  process.  And  here  I  am  put  in  mind 
that  Richard  Digby,  before  he  withdrew  himself  from  the 
world,  was  supposed  by  skilful  physicians  to  have  con- 
tracted a  disease  for  M'hich  no  remedy  was  written  h\ 
their  medical  books.  It  was  a  depysition  of  calculous 
particles  within  his  heart,  caused  by  an  obstructed  circu- 
lation of  the  blood ;  and,  unless  a  uiiracle  should  be 
wrought  for  him,  there  was  diingar  that  the  malady  might 
act  on  the  entire  substance  of  the  organ,  and  change  his 
fleshy  heart  to  stone.  Many,  indeed,  affirmed  that  the 
process  was  already  near  its  consummation.  Richard 
Digby,  however,  could  never  be  couviuced  that  any  such 
direful  work  was  going  on  within  him  ;  nor  when  he  saw 
the  sprigs  of  marble  foliage,  did  his  heart  even  throb  the 
quicker,  at  the  similituda  suggested  by  these  once  ten- 
der herbs.  It  may  be  that  this  same  insensibility  was  a 
symptom  of  the  disease. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  Richard  Digby  was  well  contented 
with  his  sepulchral  cave.  So  dearly  did  he  love  this  con- 
genial spot,  that,  instead  of  going  a  few  paces  to  the 
bubbling  spring  for  water,  he  allayed  his  thirst  with  now 
and  then  a  drop  of  moisture  from  the  roof,  which,  had  it 
fallen  anywhere  but  on  his  tongue,  would  have  been  con- 
gealed into  a  pebble.  For  a  man  predisposed  to  stoni- 
ness  of  the  heart,  this  surely  was  unwholesome  liquor. 
But  there  he  dwelt,  for  three  days  more  eating  herbs 
and  roots,  drinking  his  own  destruction,  sleeping,  as  it 
were,  in  a  tomb,  and  awaking  to  the  solitude  of  death, 
yet  esteeming  this  horrible  mode  of  life  as  hardly  inferior 


THE    MAX    OF    ADAMANT.  185 

to  celestial  bliss.  Perhaps  superior  ;  for,  above  the  sky, 
there  would  be  angels  to  disturb  him.  At  the  close  of 
the  third  day,  lie  sat  iu  the  portal  of  his  mansion,  reading 
the  Bible  aloud,  because  no  other  ear  could  profit  bv  it, 
and  reading  it  amiss,  because  the  rays  of  tiie  setting  sun 
did  not  penetrate  the  dismal  depth  of  shadow  round  about 
hiui,  nor  fall  upon  the  sncred  page.  Suddenly,  liowever, 
a  faint  gleam  of  light  was  thrown  over  the  volume,  and, 
raising  his  eyes,  llichard  Digby  saw  that  a  yoiing  woman 
stood  before  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  and  that  the  sun- 
beams bathed  her  white  garment,  which  thus  seemed  to 
possess  a  radiance  of  its  own. 

"  Good  evening,  llichard,"  said  the  girl ;  "  I  have 
come  from  afar  to  find  thee." 

The  slender  grace  and  gentle  loveliness  of  this  young 
woman  were  at  once  recoguized  by  Richard  Digby.  Her 
name  was  Mary  GofTe.  She  had  been  a  convert  to  his 
preaching  of  the  word  in  England,  before  he  yielded  hiui- 
self  to  that  exclusive  bigotry  which  now  eufolded  him 
with  such  an  iron  grasp  that  no  other  sentiment  could 
reach  his  bosom.  When  he  came  a  pilgriui  to  America, 
she  had  remained  in  her  father's  hall ;  but  now,  as  it 
appeared,  had  crossed  the  ocean  after  him,  impelled  l)y 
the  same  faith  that  led  other  exiles  hither,  and  perhaps 
by  love  almost  as  holy.  What  else  but  faith  and  love 
united  could  have  sustained  so  delicate  a  creature,  wau- 
dering  thus  far  into  the  forest,  with  her  golden  hair 
dishevelled  by  the  boughs,  and  her  feet  wounded  by  the 
thorns?  Yet,  weary  and  faint  though  she  must  have 
been,  and  affrighted  at  the  dreariuess  of  the  cave,  she 
looked  on  the  lonely  man  with  a  mild  and  pitving  ex- 
pression, such  as  might  beaui  from  an  angel's  eyes, 
towards  an  afflicted  mortal.  But  the  recluse,  frowning 
sternly  upon  her,  and  keeping  his    finger  between    the 


186  THE    MAX    OF    ADAMANT. 

leaves  of  his  lialf-clused  Bible,  motioned  ber  away  \ritb 
his  baud. 

"Off!"  cried  he.  "I  am  sauetified,  and  thou  art 
sinful.     Away  !  " 

"  O  Richard,"  said  she,  earnestly,  "  I  have  come  this 
■weary  way  because  I  heard  tbat  a  grievous  distemper 
had  seized  upon  thy  heart;  and  a  great  Physician  hath 
given  me  the  skill  to  cure  it.  There  is  no  other  remedy 
than  this  which  I  have  brought  thee.  Turn  me  not 
away,  therefore,  nor  refuse  my  medicine  ;  for  then  must 
this  dismal  cave  be  thy  sepulchre." 

"Away!"  replied  Richard  Digby,  still  with  a  dark 
frown.  "  My  heart  is  in  better  condition  than  thine 
own.  Leave  me,  earthly  one  ;  for  the  sun  is  almost  set ; 
and  when  no  hght  reaches  the  door  of  the  cave,  then  is 
my  prayer-time." 

Now,  great  as  was  her  need,  Mary  Goffe  did  not  plead 
■with  this  stony-hearted  man  for  shelter  and  protection, 
nor  ask  anything  whatever  for  her  own  sake.  All  her 
zeal  was  for  his  welfare. 

"  Come  back  with  me !  "  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her 
hands,  —  "  come  back  to  thy  fellow-men  ;  f(U-  they  need 
thee,  Richard,  and  thou  hast  tenfold  need  of  them. 
Stay  not- in  this  evil  den;  for  the  air  is  chill,  and  the 
damps  are  fatal ;  nor  will  any  that  perish  within  it  ever 
find  the  path  to  heaven.  Hasten  hsnce,  I  entreat  thee, 
for  thine  own  soul's  sake  ;  for  either  the  roof  will  fall 
upon  thv  head,  or  some  other  speedy  destruction  is  at 
Land."  ' 

"  Perverse  woman  !  "  answered  Richard  Digby,  laugh- 
ing aloud,  —  for  he  was  moved  to  bitter  mirth  by  her 
foolish  vehemence,  —  "I  tell  thee  that  the  path  to  heaven 
leadeth  straight  through  this  narrow  portal  where  I  sit. 
And,    moreover,   the    destruction   thou   speakest    of  is 


THE    MAN    OF    ADAMANT.  187 

ordained,  not  for  tliis  blessed  cave,  but  for  all  other  liab- 
itations  of  mankind,  tlir()U£,'Iiont  the  earth.  Get  thee 
hence  speedily,  that  thou  niayst  have  thy  share !  " 

So  saying,  he  opened  his  Bible  again,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  intently  on  the  page,  being  resolved  to  withdraw 
his  thoughts  from  this  child  of  sin  and  wrath,  and  to 
waste  no  more  of  liis  holy  breath  upon  her.  The  shadow 
had  now^  grown  so  deep,  where  he  was  sitting,  that  lie 
made  continual  mistakes  in  what  he  read,  converting  all 
that  was  gracious  and  merciful  to  denunciations  of  ven- 
geance and  unutterable  woe  on  every  created  being  but 
himself.  Mary  Gaffe,  meanwhile,  was  leaning  against 
a  tree,  beside  the  sepulchral  cave,  very  sad,  yet  with 
something  heavenly  and  ethereal  in  her  unselfish  sorrow. 
The  light  from  the  setting  sun  still  glorified  her  form, 
and  was  reflected  a  little  way  within  the  darksome  den, 
discovering  so  terrible  a  gloom  that  the  maiden  shud- 
dered for  its  self-doomed  inhabitant.  Espying  the  bright 
fountain  near  at  hand,  she  hastened  thither,  and  scooped 
up  a  portion  of  its  water,  in  a  cup  of  birchen  bark.  A 
few  tears  mingled  with  the  draught,  and  jjcrhaps  gave  it 
all  its  efficacy.  She  then  returned  to  the  mouth  of  the 
cave,  and  knelt  down  at  Richard  Digby's  feet. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  w'ith  passionate  fervor,  yet  a 
gentleness  in  all  her  passion,  "1  pray  thee,  by  thy  hope 
of  heaven,  and  as  thou  wouldst  not  dwell  in  this  tomb 
forever,  drink  of  this  hallowed  water,  be  it  but  a  single 
drop !  Then,  make  room  for  me  by  thy  side,  and  let  us 
read  together  one  page  of  that  blessed  volume;  and, 
lastly,  kneel  down  with  me  and  pray!  Do  this,  and  thy 
stony  heart  shall  become  softer  than  a  babe's,  and  all  be 
well." 

But  Richard  Bigby,  in  utter  abhorrence  of  the  pro- 
posal, cast  the  Bible  at  his  kc\,  and  eyed  her  with  such 


188  THE    MAN    OF    ADAMANT. 

a  fixed  and  evil  frown,  that  be  looked  less  like  a  living 
man  than  a  marble  statue,  wrought  by  some  dark-im- 
agined sculptor  to  express  the  most  repulsive  mood  that 
human  features  couki  assume.  And,  as  liis  look  grew 
even  devihsh,  so,  with  an  equal  change  did  Mary  Goffe 
become  more  sad,  more  mild,  more  pitiful,  more  like  a 
sorrowing  angel.  But,  the  more  heavenly  she  was,  the 
more  hateful  did  slie  seem  to  Richard  Digby,  who  at 
length  raised  his  hand,  and  smote  down  the  cup  of 
hallowed  water  upon  the  threshold  of  the  cave,  thus 
rejecting  the  only  medicine  that  could  have  cured  his 
stony  heart.  A  sweet  perfume  lingered  in  the  air  for  a 
moment,  and  then  was  gone. 

"  Tempt  me  no  more,  accursed  woman,"  exclaimed  he, 
still  AA-ith  his  marble  frown,  "lest  I  smite  thee  down 
also!  What  hast  thou  to  do  with  my  Bible?  —  what 
■with  my  prayers  ?  —  what  with  my  heaven  ?  " 

No  sooner  had  he  spoken  these  dreadful  words,  than 
Richard  Digby's  heart  ceased  to  beat;  while  —  so  the 
legend  says  —  the  form  of  Mary  Goife  melted  into  the 
last  sunbeams,  and  returned  from  the  sepulchral  cave  to 
heaven.  Tor  Mary  Goffe  iiad  been  buried  in  an  Eng- 
hsh  churchyard,  months  before ;  and  either  it  was  her 
ghost  that  haunted  the  wild  forest,  or  else  a  dream-like 
spirit,  typifying  pure  Religion. 

Above  a  century  afterwards,  when  the  trackless  forest 
of  Richard  Digby's  day  had  long  been  interspersed  with 
settlenicnts,  the  children  of  a  neighboring  farmer  were 
playing  at  the  foot  of  a  hill.  The  trees,  on  account  of 
the  rude  and  broken  surface  of  this  acclivity,  had  never 
been  felled,  and  were  crowded  so  densely  together  as  to 
hide  all  but  a  few  rocky  prominences,  wherever  their 
roots  could  grapple  with  the  soil.  A  little  boy  and  girl, 
to  conceal  themselves  from  their  playmates,  had  crept 


THE    MAN    OF    ADAMANT.  ISO 

into  the  deepest  sliacle,  -wliere  not  only  the  darksome 
pines,  but  a  thick  veil  of  creej)ing  plants  suspended  from 
an  overhanging  rock,  combined  to  make  a  twilight  at 
noonday,  and  almost  a  midnight  at  all  other  seasons. 
There  the  children  hid  themselves,  and  shouted,  repeat- 
ing the  cry  at  intervals,  till  the  whole  party  of  pur- 
suers were  drawn  thither,  and  pulling  aside  the  mat- 
ted foliage,  let  in  a  doubtful  glimpse  of  daylight.  But 
scarcely  was  this  accomplished,  when  the  little  group 
uttered  a  simultaneous  shriek,  and  tumbled  headlong 
down  the  hill,  making  the  best  of  their  way  homeward, 
without  a  second  glance  into  the  gloomy  recess.  Their 
father,  unable  to  comprehend  what  had  so  startled  thrm, 
took  his  axe,  and,  by  felling  one  or  two  trees,  and  tear- 
ing away  the  creeping  ])lants,  laid  the  mystery  open  to 
the  day.  He  had  discovered  the  entrance  of  a  cave, 
closely  resembling  the  mouth  of  a  sepulchre,  within 
which  sat  the  figure  of  a  man,  whose  gesture  and  atti- 
tude Avarned  the  father  and  children  to  stand  back,  while 
his  visage  wore  a  most  forbidding  frown.  This  rcj)ul- 
sive  personage  seemed  to  have  been  carved  in  the  same 
gray  stone  that  formed  the  walls  and  portal  of  the  cave. 
On  minuter  inspection,  indeed,  such  blemishes  were  ob- 
served, as  made  it  doubtful  Avhether  the  figure  were 
really  a  statue,  chiselled  by  human  art,  and  somewhat 
worn  and  defaced  by  the  lapse  of  ages,  or  a  freak  of 
Nature,  who  migiit  have  chosen  to  imitate,  in  stone, 
her  usual  handiwork  of  flesh.  Perhaps  it  Avas  the  least 
unreasonable  idea,  suggested  by  this  strange  sj)cetacle, 
that  the  moisture  of  the  cave  possessed  a  petrifying 
quality,  which  had  thus  awfully  embalmed  a  human 
corpse. 

There  was  something  so  frightful  in  the  aspect  of  this 
Man  of  Adamant,  that  tlic  farmer,  the  moment  that  he 


190  THE    MAX    OF    AD A:\rAXT. 

recovered  from  the  fascination  of  his  first  gaze,  began  to 
heap  stones  into  the  mouth  of  the  cavern.  His  wife, 
who  had  followed  iiim  to  the  hill,  assisted  her  husband's 
efforts.  The  children,  also,  approached  as  near  as  they 
durst,  with  their  little  hands  full  of  pebbles,  and  cast 
them  on  the  pile.  Eartli  was  then  thrown  into  the 
crevices,  and  the  whole  fabric  overlaid  with  sods.  Thus 
all  traces  of  the  discovery  were  obliterated,  leaving  only 
a  marvellous  legend,  which  grew  wilder  from  one  gen- 
eration to  another,  as  the  children  told  it  to  their  grand- 
children, and  they  to  their  posterity,  till  few  believed 
that  there  had  ever  been  a  cavern  or  a  statue,  where 
now  they  saw  but  a  grassy  patch  on  the  shadowy  hill- 
side. Yet,  grown  people  avoid  the  spot,  nor  do  children 
play  there.  Friendship,  and  Love,  and  Piety,  all  human 
and  celestial  sympathies,  should  keep  aloof  from  that 
hidden  cave;  for  there  still  sits,  and,  unless  an  earth- 
quake crumble  down  the  roof  upon  his  head,  shall  sit 
forever,  the  shape  of  Richard  Digby,  in  the  attitude  of 
repelling  the  whole  race  of  mortals,  —  not  from  heaven, 
—  but  from  the  horrible  loneliness  of  his  dark,  cold 
sepulchre  ! 


THE   DEVIL    IN   MANUSCRIPT. 


N  a  bitter  evening  of  December,  I  arrived  by 
mail  in  a  large  town,  wliich  uas  then  tiie  resi- 


dence of  an  intimate  friend,  one  of  tli 


irifted 


youths  who  cultivate  poetry  and  the  belles-lettres,  and 
call  themselves  students  at  law.  My  first  business,  after 
supper,  was  to  visit  bim  at  the  office  of  his  distinguished 
instructor.  As  I  have  said,  it  was  a  bitter  night,  clear 
starlight,  but  cold  as  Nova  Zembla,  — tlic  shop-windows 
along  the  street  being  frosted,  so  as  almost  to  hide  the 
lights,  while  the  wheels  of  coaclies  thundered  erpially 
loud  over  frozen  earth  and  paveuienls  of  stone.  There 
was  no  snow,  either  on  tlie  ground  or  the  roofs  of  tlie 
houses.  The  wind  blew  so  violently,  tliat  I  had  but  to 
spread  my  cloak  like  a  main-sail,  and  scud  ah)ng  the 
street  at  the  rate  of  ten  knots,  greatly  envied  i)y  other 
navigators,*  who  were  beating  slowly  up,  witli  the  gale 
right  in  their  teeth.  One  of  these  I  capsized,  but  was 
gone  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  before  he  could  even 
vociferate  an  oatli. 

After  this  picture  of  an  inclement  night,  behold  us 
seated  by  a  great  blazing  lire,  which  looked  so  condort- 
able  and  delicious  that  I  felt  inclined  to  lie  down  aud 
roll  among  the  hot  coals.  The  usual  furniture  of  a 
lawyer's  ofliee  was  around   us, — rows  of  volumes   in 


192  THE    DEVIL    IN    MANUSCRIPT. 

sheep-skill,  and  a  iiuiltitude  of  writs,  summonses,  and 
other  legal  papers,  scattered  over  the  desks  and  tables. 
But  there  were  certain  objects  which  seemed  to  intimate 
that  we  had  little  dread  of  the  intrusion  of  clients,  or  of 
the  learned  counsellor  himself,  who,  indeed,  was  attend- 
ing court  in  a  distant  town.  A  tall,  decanter-shaped 
bottle  stood  on  the  table,  between  two  tumblers,  and 
beside  a  pile  of  blotted  manuscripts,  altogether  dissim- 
ilar to  aiiv  law  documents  recognized  in  our  courts.  My 
friend,  whom  I  shall  call  Oberon,  —  it  was  a  name  of 
fancy  and  friendship  between  him  and  me, — my  friend 
Oberon  looked  at  these  papers  with  a  peculiar  expression 
of  disquietude. 

"  I  do  believe,"  said  he,  soberly,  "  or,  at  least,  I  could 
believe,  if  I  chose,  that  there  is  a  devil  in  this  pile  of 
blotted  papers.  You  have  read  them,  and  know  what  I 
mean,  —  that  conception  in  which  I  endeavored  to  em- 
body the  character  of  a  iiend,  as  represented  in  our 
traditions  and  the  written  records  of  witchcraft.  O,  I 
have  a  horror  of  what  was  created  in  my  own  brain,  and 
shudder  at  the  manuscripts  in  which  I  gave  that  dark 
idea  a  sort  of  material  existence !  TV'ould  they  were  out 
of  my  sight !  " 

"  And  of  mine,  too,"  thouglit  I. 

"  You  remember,"  continued  Oberon,  "  how  the  hell- 
ish thing  used  to  suck  away  the  happiness  of  those  who, 
by  a  simple  concession,  that  seemed  almost  innocent, 
subjected  themselves  to  his  power.  Just  so  my  peace  is 
gone,  and  all  by  these  accursed  manuscripts.  Have  you 
felt  nothing  of  the  same  influence  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  replied  I,  "  unless  the  spell  be  hid  in  a 
desire  to  turn  novelist,  after  reading  your  delightful 
tales." 

"  Novelist !  "  exclaimed  Oberon,  half  seriously.  "  Then^ 


THE    DEVIL    IN    MANUSCRIPT.  193 

indeed,  my  devil  lias  his  claw  on  you  I  You  are  gone  ! 
You  cannot  even  pray  for  deliverance !  But  we  will  be 
the  last  and  only  victims ;  for  this  uii^ht  I  mean  to  burn 
tlie  manuscripts,  and  commit  the  liend  to  his  retribution 
in  tlie  flames." 

"  Burn  your  tales ! "  repeated  I,  startled  at  the  des- 
peration of  the  idea. 

"  Even  so,"  said  the  author,  despondin.^ly.  "  You 
cannot  conceive  what  an  effect  the  composition  of  these 
tales  has  had  on  me.  I  have  become  ambitious  of  a 
bubble,  and  careless  of  solid  re})utatiou.  I  am  surround- 
ing myself  with  shadows,  which  bewilder  me,  by  aping 
the  realities  of  life.  They  have  drawn  me  aside  from 
the  beaten  path  of  the  world,  and  led  me  into  a  strange 
sort  of  solitude,  —  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of  men, — 
"wliere  nobody  wishes  for  wliat  I  do,  nor  tliinks  nor  feels 
as  I  do.  Tlie  tales  have  done  all  this.  AVhen  they  are 
ashes,  perhaps  I  shall  be  as  I  was  before  tiicy  had  exist- 
ence. Moreover,  the  sacrifice  is  less  than  you  may  sup- 
pose ;  since  nobody  will  publish  them." 

"That  docs  make  a  dillcrcnce,  indeed,"  said  I. 

"  Thoy  have  been  offered,  by  letter,"  continued  Obe- 
ron,  reddening  with  vexation,  "  to  some  seventeen  book- 
sellers. It  would  make  you  stare  to  read  their  answers; 
and  read  them  you  should,  only  tiiat  I  burnt  tiiem  as  fast 
as  they  arrived.  One  man  publishes  nothing  but  school- 
books  ;  another  has  five  novels  already  under  examina- 
tion." 

"  What  a  voluminous  mass  the  unpublished  literature 
of  America  must  be  !  "  cried  I. 

"  O,  the   Alexandrian    manuscripts   M'crc    nothing   to 

it!  "  said  my  friend.     "  Well,  another  gentleman  is  just 

giving  up  business,  on  purpose,  1  verily  believe,  to  eseape 

publishing  my  book.     Several,  however,  would  not  abso- 

9  M 


194  THE    DEVIL    IN    MANUSCRIPT. 

lately  decline  the  agency,  on  ray  advancing  half  the  cost 
of  an  edition,  and  giving  bonds  for  the  remainder,  besides 
a  high  percentage  to  themselves,  whether  the  book  sells 
or  not.     Another  advises  a  subscription." 

"  The  villain  !  "  exclaimed  I. 

"A  fact !  "  said  Oberon.  "  In  short,  of  all  the  seven- 
teen booksellers,  only  one  has  vouchsafed  even  to  read 
my  tales;  and  he  —  a  literary  dabbler  himself,!  should 
judge  —  has  the  impertinence  to  criticise  them,  proposing 
what  he  calls  vast  improvements,  and  concludiug,  after  a 
general  sentence  of  condemnation,  with  the  definitive  as- 
surance that  he  will  not  be  concerned  on  any  terms. 

"It  might  not  be  amiss  to  pull  that  fellow's  nose," 
remarked  I. 

"If  the  whole  'trade'  had  one  common  nose,  there 
would  be  some  satisfaction  in  pulling  it,"  auswered  the 
author.  "  But,  there  does  seem  to  be  one  honest  man 
among  these  seventeen  unrighteous  ones ;  and  he  tells 
me  fairly,  that  no  American  publisher  will  meddle  with 
an  American  worlc,  —  seldom  if  by  a  known  writer,  and 
never  if  by  a  new  one,  —  unless  at  the  writer's  risk," 

"  The  paltry  rogues  !  "  cried  I.  "  Will  they  live  by 
literature,  and  yet  risk  nothing  for  its  sake  ?  But,  after 
all,  you  might  publisii  on  your  own  account." 

"  And  so  I  might,"  replied  Oberon.  "  But  the  devil 
of  the  business  is  this.  These  people  have  put  me  so 
out  of  conceit  with  the  tales,  that  I  loathe  the  very 
thought  of  them,  and  actually  experience  a  physical  sick- 
ness of  the  stomach,  whenever  I  glance  at  them  on  the 
table.  I  tell  you  there  is  a  demon  in  them !  I  antici- 
pate a  wild  enjoyment  in  seehig  them  in  the  blaze;  such 
as  I  should  feel  in  taking  vengeance  on  an  enemy,  or 
destroying  somethhig  noxious." 

I  did  not  very  strenuously  oppose  this  determination. 


THE    DKVIL    IN    .MAXL SCRIPT.  lJ)5 

being  privately  of  opinion,  in  spite  of  my  partiality  for 
the  author,  that  his  tales  would  make  a  more  brilliant 
appearance  in  the  fire  than  anywhere  else.  Before  pro- 
ceeding to  execution,  we  broached  the  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne, which  Oberon  had  provided  for  keeping  up  liis 
spirits  in  this  doleful  business.  We  swallowed  each  a 
tumblerful,  in  sparkling  commotion;  it  went  bubbling 
down  our  throats,  and  brightened  my  eyes  at  once,  but 
left  my  friend  sad  and  heavy  as  before.  He  drew  the 
tales  towards  him,  with  a  mixture  of  natural  ali'ection 
and  natural  disgust,  like  a  lather  taking  a  deformed  in- 
fant into  his  arms. 

"Pooh!  Pish!  Pshaw!"  exclaimed  he,  holding  them 
at  arm's-length.  "  It  was  Gray's  idea  of  heaven,  to 
lounge  on  a  sofa  and  read  new  novels.  Now,  what 
more  appropriate  torture  would  Dante  himself  have  con- 
trived, for  the  sinner  who  perpetrates  a  bad  book,  than 
to  be  continually  turning  over  the  manuscript  ? " 

"It  would  fail  of  eiJect,"  said  I,  "because  a  bad 
author  is  always  his  own  great  admirer." 

"  I  lack  that  one  characteristic  of  my  tribe,  —  the  only 
desirable  one,"  observed  Oberon.  "But  how  many 
recollect i(ms  throng  upon  me,  as  I  turn  over  these 
leaves!  This  scene  came  into  my  fancy  as  I  walked 
along  a  hilly  road,  on  a  starlight  October  evening;  in 
the  pure  and  bracing  air,  I  became  all  soul,  and  felt  as 
if  I  could  climb  the  sky,  and  run  a  race  along  the  Milky- 
Way.  Here  is  another  tale,  in  which  I  wrapt  myself 
during  a  dark  and  dreary  night-ride  in  the  month  of 
March,  till  the  rattling  of  the  wheels  and  the  voices  of 
my  companions  seemed  like  faint  sounds  of  a  dream,  and 
my  visions  a  bright  reality.  That  scribbled  page  de- 
scribes shadows  which  I  summoned  to  my  bedside  at 
midnight:  they  would  not  depart  when   1   bade  them; 


196  THE    DEVIL    IN    MANUSCRIPT. 

the  gray  dawn  came,  and  found  me  wide  awake  and 
feverish,  the  victim  of  my  own  enchantments ! " . 

"There  must  liave  been  a  sort  of  happiness  in  all 
this,"  said  I,  smitten  with  a  strange  longing  to  make 
proof  of  it. 

"  There  may  be  happiness  in  a  fever  fit,"  replied  the 
author.  "  And  then  the  various  moods  in  wliich  I  wrote  ! 
Sometimes  my  ideas  were  like  precious  stones  under  the 
earth,  requiring  toil  to  dig  them  up,  and  care  to  polish 
and  brighten  them ;  but  often,  a  delicious  stream  of 
thought  would  gush  out  upon  the  page  at  once,  like 
water  sparkliug  up  suddenly  in  the  desert;  and  when 
it  had  passed,  I  gnawed  my  pen  hopelessly,  or  blun- 
dered on  with  cold  and  miserable  toil,  as  if  there  were 
a  wall  of  ice  between  me  and  my  subject." 

"Do  you  now  perceive  a  corresponding  difference," 
inquired  I,  "  between  the  passages  which  you  wrote  so 
coldly,  and  those  fervid  flashes  of  the  mind  ?  " 

"xso,"  said  Oberon,  tossing  the  manuscripts  on  the 
table.  "I  find  no  traces  of  the  golden  pen,  with  which 
I  wrote  in  characters  of  fire.  My  treasure  of  fairy  coin 
is  changed  to  worthless  dross.  My  picture,  pamted  in 
what  seemed  the  loveliest  hues,  presents  nothing  but  a 
faded  and  indistinguishable  surface.  I  have  been  elo- 
quent and  poetical  and  humorous  in  a  dream,  —  and 
behold !  it  is  all  nonsense,  now  tliat  I  am  awake." 

My  friend  now  threw  sticks  of  wood  and  dry  chips 
upon  the  fire,  and  seeing  it  blaze  like  Nebuchadnezzar's 
furnace,  seized  the  champagne-bottle,  and  drank  two  or 
three  brimming  bumpers,  successively.  The  h.eady  liquor 
combined  with  his  agitation  to  throw  him  into  a  species 
of  rage.  He  laid  violent  hands  on  the  tales.  In  one 
instant  more,  their  faults  and  beauties  would  alike  have 
vanished  in  a  glowing  purgatory.     But,  all  at  once,  I 


THE    DEVIL    IX    :\IAXUSCRIPT.  l\)7 

remembered  passages  of  high  imagiuatiou,  deep  ])athos, 
original  tlioughts,  and  points  of  sucli  varied  excellence, 
that  the  vastness  of  the  sacrifice  struck  me  most  forcibly. 
I  caught  his  arm. 

*' Surely,  you  do  not  mean  to  burn  tlicm  !  "  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"Let  me  alone  !  "  cried  Obcron,  his  eyes  Hashing  fire. 
"I  will  burn  them!  Kot  a  scorched  syllable  sliall 
escape!  "Would  you  have  me  a  damned  author? — To 
undergo  sneers,  taunts,  abuse,  and  cold  neglect,  and  faint 
praise,  bestowed,  for  ))ity's  sake,  against  the  giver's  con. 
science !  A  hissing  and  a  laughing-stock  to  my  own 
traitorous  thoughts  !  An  outlaw  from  the  protection  of 
the  grave,  —  one  wliose  ashes  every  careless  foot  might 
spurn,  unhonored  in  life,  and  remembered  scornfully  in 
death  !  Am  I  to  bear  all  this,  when  yonder  fire  will 
insure  me  from  the  wlK)le  ?  Ko  !  Tliere  go  the  tales  ! 
May  my  hand  wilher  when  it  would  write  another  !  " 

The  deed  was  done.  lie  had  thrown  the  manuscripts 
into  the  hottest  of  the  fire,  whicli  at  first  seemed  to  shrint 
away,  but  soon  curled  around  them,  and  made  them  a 
part  of  its  own  fervent  brightness.  Obcron  stood  gazing 
at  the  conflagration,  and  shortly  began  to  soliloquize,  in 
the  wildest  strain,  as  if  Fancy  resisted  and  became  riot- 
ous, at  the  moment  when  lie  would  have  com])elled  her 
to  ascend  that  funeral  pile.  His  words  described  objects 
•which  he  appeared  to  discern  in  the  fire,  fed  by  his  own 
precious  thoughts  ;  perhaps  tlie  thousand  visions  which 
the  writer's  magic  had  incorporated  with  these  pages 
became  visible  to  him  in  the  dissolving  heat,  ])riglitcning 
forth  ere  they  vanished  forever;  while  the  smoke,  the 
A'ivid  sheets  of  flame,  the  ruddy  and  whitening  coals, 
caught  the  aspect  of  a  varied  scenery. 

"  They  blaze,"  said  he,  "  as  if  1  had  steeped  them  iu 


198  THE    DEVIL    IN    MAXUSCRIPT. 

the  iutensest  spirit  of  gcDius.  Tliere  I  see  my  lovers 
clasped  iu  each  other's  arms.  How  pure  the  flame  that 
bursts  from  their  glo^yiug  hearts !  And  yonder  the 
features  of  a  villain  writhing  in  the  fire  that  shall  tor- 
ment him  to  eternity.  My  holy  men,  my  pious  and 
angelic  women,  stand  like  martyrs  amid  the  flames,  their 
mild  eyes  hfted  heavenward,  lling  out  the  bells !  A 
city  is  on  fire.  See! — destruction  roars  through  my 
dark  forests,  while  the  lakes  boil  up  in  steaming  billows, 
and  the  mountains  are  volcanoes,  and  the  sky  kindles 
with  a  lurid  brightness  !  All  elements  are  but  one  per- 
vading flame  !     Ha  !     The  fiend  !  " 

I  was  somewhat  startled  by  this  latter  exclamation. 
The  tales  were  almost  consumed,  but  just  then  threw 
forth  a  broad  sheet  of  fire,  Avhich  flickered  as  with  laugh- 
ter, makhig  the  whole  room  dance  iu  its  brightness,  and 
then  roared  portentously  up  the  chimney, 

"  You  saw  him  ?  You  must  have  seen  him  !  "  cried 
Oberou.  "  How  he  glared  at  me  and  laughed,  in  that 
last  sheet  of  flame,  with  just  the  features  that  1  imagined 
for  him  !     "Well !     The  tales  are  gone." 

The  papers  were  indeed  reduced  to  a  heap  of  black 
cinders,  with  a  multitude  of  sparks  hurrying  confusedly 
among  them,  the  traces  of  the  pen  behig  now  represented 
by  white  lines,  and  the  whole  mass  fluttering  to  and  fro, 
in  the  draughts  of  air.  The  destroyer  knelt  down  to 
look  at  them. 

"  What  is  more  potent  than  fire  ! '"'  said  he,  in  his 
gloomiest  tone.  "  Even  thought,  invisible  and  hicorpo- 
real  as  it  is,  cannot  escape  it.  In  this  little  time,  it  has 
annihilated  the  creations  of  long  nights  and  days,  which 
I  could  no  more  reproduce,  in  their  first  glow  and  fresh- 
ness, than  cause  ashes  and  whitened  bones  to  rise  up  and 
live.     There,  too,  I  sacrificed  tlie  unborn  children  of  my 


THE    DEVIL    IN    MANUSCRIPT.  lUU 

mind.  All  that  I  had  acconiplislied  —  all  that  I  planned 
for  future  years  —  has  perished  by  one  common  ruin,  and 
left  only  this  heap  of  embers  !  The  deed  has  been  my 
fate.  And  what  remains  ?  A  -sveary  and  aimless  life,  — 
a  long  repentanee  of  this  hour,  — and  at  last  an  obscure 
grave,  where  they  will  bury  and  forget  me  !  " 

As  the  author  concluded  his  dolorous  moan,  the  extin- 
guished embers  arose  and  settled  down  and  arose  again, 
and  finally  Hew  up  the  chimney,  like  a  demon  with  sable 
whigs.  Just  as  they  disappeared,  there  was  a  loud  and 
solitary  cry  in  the  street  below  us.  "Tire!  Pire!" 
Other  voices  caught  up  that  terrible  word,  and  it  speedily 
became  the  shout  of  a  mullilude.  Obcron  started  to  his 
feet,  in  fresh  excitement. 

"A  fire  on  such  a  night!"  cried  he.  "Tiie  wind 
blows  a  gale,  and  wherever  it  whirls  the  flames,  tiic  roofs 
will  Hash  up  like  gunpowder.  Every  pump  is  frozen  up, 
and  boiling  water  would  turn  to  ice  the  moment  it  was 
flung  from  the  engine.  In  an  hour,  this  wooden  town 
will  be  one  great  bonfire  !  AVliat  a  glorious  scene  for  my 
uext  —    Pshaw  !  " 

The  street  was  now  all  alive  with  footsteps,  and  the 
air  full  of  voices.  We  heard  one  engine  thundering 
round  a  corner,  and  another  rattling  from  a  distance  over 
the  pavements.  The  bells  of  three  steeples  clanged  out 
at  once,  spreading  the  alarm  to  many  a  neighboring 
town,  and  expressing  hurry,  confusion,  and  terror,  so 
inimitably  that  I  could  almost  distinguish  in  their  peal 
the  burden  of  the  universal  cry,  —  "  Pire  !  Pire  !  Pire  !  " 

"What  is  so  ek)quent  as  their  iron  tongues!"  ex- 
claimed Oberon.  "  ^ly  heart  leaps  and  trembles,  but 
not  with  fear.  And  that  other  sound,  too,  —  deep  and 
awful  as  a  mighty  organ,  —  the  roar  and  thunder  of  the 
multitude  on  the  pavement  below !      Come  I     We  are 


200  THE    DEVIL    IN    MANUSCRIPT. 

losing  time.  I  will  cry  out  in  tlie  loudest  of  the  uproar, 
and  mingle  my  spirit  with  the  wildest  of  the  confusion, 
and  be  a  bubble  on  the  top  of  the  ferment !  " 

From  tlie  first  outcry,  my  forebodings  had  warned  nie 
of  the  true  object  and  centre  of  alarm.  There  was  noth- 
ing now  but  uproar,  above,  beneath,  and  around  us ;  foot- 
steps stumbling  pell-mell  up  the  public  staircase,  eager 
shouts  and  heavy  thumps  at  the  door,  the  whiz  and  dash 
of  water  from  the  engines,  and  tlie  crash  of  furniture 
thrown  upon  the  pavement.  At  once,  the  truth  flashed 
upon  my  friend.  His  frenzy  took  the  hue  of  joy,  and, 
with  a  wild  gesture  of  exultation,  he  leaped  almost  to  the 
ceiling  of  the  chamber. 

"My  tales!"  cried  Oberon.  "The  chimney!  The 
roof !  Tlie  Fiend  has  gone  forth  by  night,  and  startled 
thousands  in  fear  and  wonder  from  their  beds !  Here  I 
stand, — a  triumphant  author!  Huzza!  Huzza!  My 
brain  has  set  the  town  on  fire !     Huzza !  " 


JOHN  INGLEFIELD'S  THANKSGIVING. 


N  the  eveniiij^  of  Thanksgiving  day,  Jolin  Inglc- 
field,  the  bhicksniitli,  sat  iu  his  elbow-cliair, 
among  those  who  had  been  keeping  Testivul  at 
his  board.  Being  the  central  figure  of  tlie  domestic  cir- 
cle, the  fire  threw  its  strongest  light  on  his  massive  and 
sturdy  frame,  reddening  his  rough  •  visage,  so  that  it 
looked  like  the  head  of  an  iron  statue,  all  aglow,  from 
his  own  forge,  and  with  its  features  rudely  fashioned  ou 
his  own  anvil.  At  John  Inglefield's  right  hand  was  au 
empty  chair.  Tlic  other  places  round  the  hearth  were 
filled  by  the  members  of  the  family,  who  all  sat  quietly, 
Mhile,  wilh  a  semblance  of  fantastic  merriment,  their 
shadows  danced  on  the  wall  behind  them.  One  of  the 
group  was  John  Inglefield's  son,  Avho  had  been  bred  at 
college,  and  was  now  a  student  of  theology  at  Andover. 
There  was  also  a  daughter  of  sixteen,  whom  nobody 
could  look  at  without  thinking  of  a  rosebud  almost 
bh)ssomed.  The  only  other  person  at  the  fireside  was 
Kobert  Moore,  formerly  an  apprentice  of  the  blacksmith, 
but  now  his  journeyman,  and  who  seemed  more  like  au 
own  son  of  John  Inglefield  than  did  the  pale  and  slender 
student. 

Only  these  four  had  kept  New  England's  festival  be- 
neath that  roof.     Tiie  vacant  chair  at  John  Juijlefiehrs 
9* 


20'Z        JOHN    TXGLEFTELD'S    THANKSGl ViXG. 

right  hand  was  in  memory  of  his  wife,  wliom  dcatli  had 
snatched  from  him  since  tlie  previous  Thanksgiving. 
"With  a  feeling  that  few  woukl  have  looked  for  in  his 
rough  nature,  the  bereaved  husband  had  himself  set  the 
chair  in  its  place  next  his  own ;  and  often  did  his  eye 
glance  thitherward,  as  if  he  deemed  it  possible  that  the 
cold  grave  might  send  back  its  tenant  to  the  cheerful 
fireside,  at  least  for  that  one  evening.  Thus  did  lie 
cherish  the  grief  that  was  dear  to  him.  But  there  was 
another  grief  which  he  would  fain  have  torn  from  his 
heart ;  or,  since  that  could  never  be,  have  buried  it  too 
deep  for  others  to  behold,  or  for  his  own  remembrance. 
Within  the  past  year  another  member  of  his  household 
had  gone  from  him,  but  not  to  the  grave.  Yet  they  kept 
no  vacant  chair  for  her. 

While  John  Ingle  field  and  his  family  were  sitting 
round  the  hearth  with  the  shadows  dancing  behind  them 
on  the  wall,  the  outer  door  was  opened,  and  a  light  foot- 
step came  along  the  passage.  Tiie  latch  of  the  inner 
door  was  lifted  by  some  familiar  hand,  and  a  young  girl 
came  in,  wearing  a  cloak  and  hood,  which  she  took  off, 
and  laid  on  the  table  beneath  the  looking-glass.  Then, 
after  gazing  a  moment  at  the  fireside  circle,  she  ap- 
proached, and  took  the  seat  at  John  luglefield's  right 
hand,  as   if  it  had  been  reserved  on  ^purpose  for  her. 

"  Here  I  am,  at  last,  father,"  said  she.  "  You  ate 
your  Thanksgiving  dinner  without  me,  but  I  have  come 
back  to  spend  the  evening  with  you." 

Yes,  it  was  Prudence  Inglefield.  She  wore  the  same 
neat  and  maidenly  attire  which  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  put  on  when  the  household  work  was  over  for  the 
day,  and  her  hair  was  parted  from  her  brow,  in  the 
simple  and  modest  fashion  that  became  her  best  of  all. 
If  her  cheek  might  otherwise  have  been  pale,  yet  the 


JOHN    IXGLEFIELD'S    THAXKSGIVIXG.        203 

glow  of  tlie  fire  suffused  it  witli  a  liealiliful  bloom.  If 
she  had  spent  the  many  montlis  of  her  absence  in  guilt 
and  infamy,  yet  they  seemed  to  have  left  no  traces  on 
her  gentle  aspect.  She  could  not  have  looked  less 
altered,  had  she  merely  stepped  away  from  her  father's 
fireside  for  half  an  hour,  and  returned  while  the  blaze 
was  quivering  upwards  from  the  same  brands  that  were 
burning  at  her  departure.  And  to  John  Iiiglefield  she 
was  the  very  image  of  his  buried  wife,  such  as  lie 
remembered  lier  on  the  first  Thanksgiving  which  they 
had  passed  under  tiieir  own  roof.  Therefore,  though 
naturally  a  stern  and  rugged  man,  he  could  not  speak 
unkindly  to  his  sinful  child,  nor  yet  could  he  take  h^r  to 
his  bosom. 

"  You  are  welcome  home,  Prudence,"  said  he,  glancing 
sideways  at  her,  and  ids  voice  faltered.  "  Your  mother 
would  have  rejoiced  to  see  you,  but  she  has  been  gone 
from  us  these  four  months." 

"I  know  it,  father,  1  know  it,"  replied  Prudence, 
quickly.  "And  yet,  when  1  first  came  in,  my  eyes  were 
so  dazzled  by  the  firelight,  that  she  seemed  to  be  sitting 
in  this  very  chair  !  " 

By  this  time  the  other  members  of  the  family  had 
begun  to  recover  from  their  surprise,  and  became  sensible 
that  it  was  no  ghost  from  the  grave,  nor  vision  of  their 
vivid  recollections,  but  Prudence,  her  own  self.  Her 
brother  was  the  next  that  greeted  her.  He  advanced 
and  held  out  his  hand  atlectionately,  as  a  brother  should ; 
yet  not  entirely  like  a  brother,  for,  with  all  his  kindness, 
he  was  still  a  clergyman,  and  speaking  to  a  child  of  sin. 

"  Sister  Prudence,"  said  he,  earnestly,  "  1  rejoice  that 
a  merciful  Providence  hath  turned  your  steps  homeward, 
in  time  for  me  to  bid  you  a  last  tarewell.  In  a  few 
weeks,  sister,  I  am  to  sail  as  a  missionarv  to  the  far 


20-i        JOHN    IXGLEFIELD'S    THANKSGIVING. 

islands  of  the  Pacific.  There  is  not  one  of  these  beloved 
faces  that  I  shall  ever  hope  to  behold  again  on  this  earth. 
O,  may  I  see  all  of  them  —  yours  and  all  —  beyond  the 
grave !  " 

A  shadow  flitted  across  the  girl's  countenance. 

"The  grave  is  very  dark,  brother,"  answered  she, 
withdrawing  her  hand  somewhat  liastily  from  his  grasp. 
"  You  must  look  your  last  at  me  by  the  hght  of  this 
fire." 

While  this  was  passing,  the  twin-girl  —  the  rosebud 
that  had  grown  on  the  same  stem  with  the  castaway — ■ 
stood  gazing  at  her  sister,  longing  to  fling  herself  upon 
her  bosom,  so  that  the  tendrils  of  their  hearts  might  in- 
tertwine again.  At  first  she  was  restrained  by  mingled 
grief  and  shame,  and  by  a  dread  that  Prudence  was  too 
much  changed  to  respond  to  her  aff'ection,  or  that  her 
own  'purity  would  be  felt  as  a  reproach  by  the  lost  one. 
But,  as  she  listened  to  the  familiar  voice,  while  the  face 
grew  more  and  more  familiar,  she  forgot  everything  save 
that  Prudence  had  come  back.  Springing  forward,  she 
would  have  clasped  her  iu  a  close  embrace.  At  that 
very  instant,  however.  Prudence  started  from  her  chair, 
and  held  out  both  her  hands,  with  a  warning  gesture. 

"No,  Mary,  — no,  my  sister,"  cried  she,  "do  not  you 
touch  me.     Your  bosom  must  not  be  pressed  to  mine  !  " 

Mary  shuddered  and  stood  still,  for  she  felt  that  some- 
thing darker  than  the  grave  was  between  Prudence  and 
herself,  though  they  seemed  so  near  each  other  in  the 
light  of  their  father's  hearth,  where  they  had  grown  up 
together.  Meanwliile  Prudence  threw  her  eyes  around 
the  room,  in  search  of  one  who  had  not  yet  bidden  her 
welcome.  He  had  withdrawn  horn  his  seat  by  the  fire- 
side, and  was  standing  near  the  door,  with  his  face 
averted,  so  that  his  features  could  be  discerned  oulv  by 


JOHN    INGLEFIELD'S    THANKSGIVING.         205 

the  flickering  shadow  of  the  proiile  upon  the  wall.  But 
Prudence  called  to  him,  in  a  cheerful  and  kindly  tone  :  — 

"  Come,  Robert,"  said  she,  "  won't  you  shake  hands 
with  your  old  friend  ?  " 

llobert  Moore  held  back  for  a  moment,  but  alTectioa 
struggled  powerfully,  and  overcame  his  pride  and  resent- 
ment ;  he  rushed  towards  Prudence,  seized  her  hand, 
and  pressed  it  to  his  bosom. 

"  There,  there,  Robert !  "  said  she,  smiling  sadly,  as 
she  withdrew  her  hand,  "  you  must  not  give  me  too 
warm  a  welcome." 

And  now,  having  exchanged  greetings  with  each  mem- 
ber of  the  family.  Prudence  again  seated  herself  in  the 
chair  at  John  Ingleheld's  right  hand.  She  was  natu- 
rally a  girl  of  quick  and  tender  sensibilities,  gladsome 
in  her  general  mood,  but  with  a  bewitching  pathos  inter- 
fused among  her  merriest  words  and  deeds.  It  was 
remarked  of  her,  too,  that  she  had  a  faculty,  even  from 
childhood,  of  throwing  her  own  feelings,  like  a  spell,  over 
her  companions.  Such  as  she  had  been  in  her  days  of 
innocence,  so  did  she  appear  this  evening.  Her  friends, 
in  the  surprise  and  bewilderment  of  her  return,  almost 
forgot  that  she  had  ever  left  them,  or  that  she  had  for- 
feited any  of  her  claims  to  their  affection.  In  the  morn- 
ing, perhaps,  they  might  have  looked  at  her  with  altered 
eyes,  but  by  the  Thanksgiving  fireside  they  felt  only 
that  their  own  Prudence  had  come  back  to  them,  and 
were  thankful.  John  Inglelield's  rough  visage  bright- 
ened with  the  glow  of  his  heart,  as  it  grew  warm  and 
merry  within  him  ;  once  or  twice,  even,  he  laughed 
till  the  room  rang  again,  yet  seemed  startled  by  the 
echo  of  his  own  mirth.  The  grave  young  minister 
became  as  frolicsome  as  a  school-boy.  ^lary,  too,  tiie 
rosebud,  forgot   that  her  twin-blossom  had  ever   been 


206        JOHN    IXGLEFIELD'S    THANKSGIVING. 

torn  from  the  stem,  and  trampled  in  tlie  dust.  And  as 
for  Robert  Moore,  he  gazed  at  Prudence  with  the  bash- 
ful earnestness  of  love  new-born,  while  she,  with  sweet 
maiden  coquetry,  half  smiled  upon  and  half  discouraged 
him. 

In  short,  it  was  one  of  those  intervals  when  sorrow 
vanishes  in  its  own  depth  of  siiadow,  and  joy  starts  forth 
in  transitory  brightness.  When  the  clock  struck  eight, 
Prudence  poured  out  her  father's  customary  draught  of 
herb-tea,  which  had  been  steeping  by  the  fireside  ever 
since  twilight. 

"  God  bless  you,  child  !  "  said  John  Inglefield,  as  he 
took  the  cup  from  her  hand  ;  "  you  have  made  your  old 
father  happy  again.  But  we  miss  your  mother  sadly, 
Prudence,  sadly.  It  seems  as  if  she  ought  to  be  here 
now." 

"  Xow,  father,  or  never,"  replied  Prudence. 

It  was  now  the  hour  for  domestic  worship.  But  while  ■ 
the  family  were  making  preparations  for  this  duty,  they 
suddenly  perceived  that  Prudence  had  put  on  her  cloak 
and  hood,  and  was  lifting  the  latch  of  the  door. 

"  Prudence,  Prudence  !  where  are  you  going  ?  "  cried 
they  all,  with  one  voice. 

As  Prudence  passed  out  of  the  door,  she  turned  to- 
wards them,  and  flung  back  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
farewell.  But  her  face  was  so  changed  that  they  hardly 
recognized  it.  Sin  and  evil  passions  glowed  through  its 
comeliness,  and  wrought  a  horrible  deformity  ;  a  smile 
gleamed  in  her  eyes,  as  of  triunipliant  mockery,  at  their 
surprise  and  grief. 

"  Daughter,"  cried  John  Inglefield,  between  wrath  and 
sorrow,  "  stay  and  be  your  father's  blessing,  or  take  his 
curse  with  you  !  " 

For  an  instant  Prudence  lingered  and  looked  back  into 


JOHN    IXGLEFIELD'S    THANKSGIVING.        207 

the  fire-lighted  room,  while  her  couiitenauee  wore  almost 
the  expression  as  if  she  were  struggling  with  a  fiend, 
who  had  power  to  seize  his  vietim  even  whhin  tlic  hal- 
lowed precincts  of  lier  father's  hearth.  The  fiend  pre- 
vailed ;  and  Prudence  vanished  into  the  outer  darkness. 
When  the  family  rushed  to  the  door,  they  could  see 
nothing,  but  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  rattling  over 
the  frozen  ground. 

That  same  night,  among  the  painted  beauties  at  the_ 
theatre  of  a  neighboring  city,  there  was  one  whose  dis- 
solute mirth  seemed  inconsistent  with  any  symi)athy  for 
pure  affections,  and  for  the  joys  and  griefs  whicli  are 
hallowed  by  them.  Yet  this  was  Prudence  Inglefield. 
Her  visit  to  the  Thanksgiving  fireside  was  the  realization 
of  one  of  those  waking  dreams  in  which  tlic  guilty  soul 
will  sometimes  stray  back  to  its  innocence.  But  Sin, 
alas  !  is  carefid  of  her  bond-slaves  ;  they  hear  lier  voice, 
perhaps,  at  the  lioliest  moment,  and  are  constrained  to 
go  whither  she  sunnnons  them.  The  same  dark  power 
that  drew  Prudence  Inglefield  from  her  father's  heart li 
—  the  same  in  its  nature,  though  heightened  then  to  a 
dread  necessity  —  would  snatch  a  guilty  soul  from  the 
gate  of  heaven,  and  make  its  sin  and  its  punishment 
alike  eternal. 


OLD   TICONDSROGA. 


A  PICTURE  OF  THE  PAST. 


IE  greatest  attraction,  in  this  vicinity,  is  the 
famous  old  fortress  of  Ticonderoga,  the  remains 
of  "wliich  are  visible  from  the  piazza  of  the 
tavern,  on  a  swell  of  land  that  shuts  in  the  prospect  of 
tlie  lake.  Those  celebrated  heights,  Mount  Defiance  and 
Mount  Independence,  familiar  to  all  Americans  in  history, 
stand  too  prominent  not  to  be  recognized,  though  neither 
of  them  precisely  corresponds  to  the  images  excited  by 
their  names.  In  truth,  the  whole  scene,  except  the  in- 
terior of  the  fortress,  disappointed  me.  Mount  Defiance, 
whicli  one  ])ictures  as  a  steep,  lofty,  and  rugged  hill,  of 
most  formidable  aspect,  frowning  down  with  the  grim 
visage  of  a  precipice  on  old  Ticonderoga,  is  merely  a  long 
and  wooded  ridge ;  and  bore,  at  some  former  period,  the 
gentle  name  of  Sugar  Hill.  The  brow  is  certainly  diffi- 
cult to  climb,  and  high  enough  to  look  into  every  corner 
of  the  fortress.  St.  Clair's  most  probable  reason,  how- 
ever, for  neglecting  to  occupy  it,  was  the  deficiency  of 
troops  to  man  the  works  already  constructed,  rather  than 
th3  supposed  inaccessibility  of  Mount  Defiance.  It  is 
singular  that  the  French  never  fortified  this  height, 
standing,  as  it  does,  in  the  quarter  whence  they  must 
have  looked  for  the  advance  of  a  British  army. 


OLD    TICONDEROGA.  209 

In  my  first  view  of  tlie  ruins,  I  was  favored  wiili  tlic 
scientific  guidance  of  a  young  lieutenant  of  engineers, 
recently  from  West  Point,  where  he  had  gained  credit  for 
great  military  genius.  I  saw  nothing  but  confusion  in 
what  chiefly  interested  him  ;  straight  lines  and  zigzags, 
defence  within  defence,  wall  opposed  to  wall,  and  ditch 
intersecting  ditch  ;  oblong  squares  of  masonry  l)elow  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  and  huge  mounds,  or  turf-covered 
hills  of  stone,  above  it.  On  one  of  these  artificial  hil- 
locks, a  pine-tree  has  rooted  itself,  and  grown  tall  and 
strong,  since  the  banner-stafl'  was  levelled.  But  where 
my  unniilitary  glance  could  trace  no  regularity,  the  young 
lieutenant  was  ])erfectly  at  home.  lie  fathomed  the 
meaning  of  every  ditch,  and  formed  an  entire  plan  of  the 
fortress  from  its  half-obliterated  lines.  His  description 
of  Ticonderoga  would  be  as  accurate  as  a  geometrical 
theorem,  and  as  barren  of  the  poetry  that  has  clustered 
round  its  decay.  I  viewed  Ticonderoga  as  a  place  of 
ancient  strength,  in  ruins  for  half  a  century:  wliere  the 
flags  of  three  nations  had  successively  waved,  and  none 
waved  now;  where  armies  had  struggled,  so  long  ago 
that  the  bones  of  the  slain  were  mouldered  ;  where  Peace 
liad  found  a  heritage  in  the  forsaken  haunts  of  "War. 
Now  the  young  West-Pointer,  with  his  lectures  on  rave- 
lins, counterscarps,  angles,  and  covered  Avays,  made  it  an 
affair  of  brick  and  mortar  and  hewn  stone,  arranged  on 
certain  regular  principles,  having  a  good  deal  to  do  with 
mathematics,  but  nothing  at  all  with  poetry. 

I  should  have  been  glad  of  a  hoary  veteran  to  totter 
by  my  side,  and  tell  me,  perhaps,  of  the  French  garrisons 
and  their  Indian  allies,  —  of  Abererombie,  Lord  Howe, 
and  Amherst, —  of  p]than  Allen's  triumj)h  and  St.  Clair's 
surrender.  The  old  soldier  and  the  old  fortress  would 
be  emblems  of  each  other.     Ilis  reminiscences,  though 

N 


210  OLD   TICOXDEROGA. 

vivid  as  the  imaga  of  Ticoiideroga  in  the  lake,  would 
liarmouize  with  the  gray  influence  of  the  scene.  A  sur- 
vivor of  the  long-disbanded  garrisons,  though  but  a 
private  soldier,  miglit  have  mustered  his  dead  chiefs  and 
comrades,  —  some  from  Westminster  Abbey,  and  Eng- 
lish churchyards,  and  battle-fields  in  Europe, — others 
from  their  graves  here  in  America,  —  others,  not  a  few, 
who  lie  sleeping  round  the  fortress ;  he  might  have 
mustered  them  all,  and  bid  them  march  through  the' 
ruined  g-iteway,  turning  their  old  historic  faces  on  me,  as 
they  passed.  Xext  to  such  a  companion,  the  best  is  one's 
own  fancy. 

At  another  visit  I  was  alone,  and,  after  rambling  all 
over  the  ramparts,  sat  down  to  rest  myself  in  one  of  the 
roofless  barracks.  These  are  old  French  structures,  and 
appear  to  have  occupied  three  sides  of  a  large  area,  now 
overgrown  with  grass,  nettles,  and  thistles.  The  one  in 
which  I  sat  was  long  and  narrow,  as  all  the  rest  had 
been,  with  peaked  gables.  The  exterior  walls  were 
nearly  entire,  constructed  of  gray,  flat,  unpicked  stones, 
the  aged  strength  of  which  promised  long  to  resist  the 
elements,  if  no  otlier  violence  should  precipitate  their 
fall.  The  roof,  floors,  partitions,  and  the  rest  of  the 
wood-work  had  probably  been  burnt,  except  some  bars 
of  stanch  old  oak,  which  were  blackened  with  fire,  but 
still  remained  imbedded  into  the  window-sills  and  over 
the  doors.  There  were  a  few  particles  of  plastering  near 
the  chimney,  scratched  with  rude  figures,  perhaps  by  a 
soldier's  hand.  A  most  luxuriant  crop  of  weeds  had 
sprung  up  within  the  edifice,  and  hid  the  scattered  frag- 
ments of  the  wall.  Grass  and  weeds  grew  in  the  win- 
dows, and  in  all  the  crevices  of  the  stone,  climbing,  step 
by  step,  till  a  tuft  of  yellow  flowers  was  waving  on  the 
highest  peak  of  the  gable.     Sjme  spicy  herb  defused  a 


OLD    TICOXDEROGA.  211 

pleasant  odor  tlirougli  the  ruin.  A  verdant  heap  of 
vegetation  had  covered  tlie  hearth  of  tlie  second  floor, 
chistoring  on  tlie  very  spot  where  the  huge  logs  had 
mouldered  to  glowing  coals,  and  flourished  beneath  the 
broad  flue,  which  had  so  often  pufled  the  smoke  over  a 
circle  of  French  or  English  soldiers.  I  felt  that  there 
was  no  other  token  of  decay  so  impressive  as  that  bed  of 
weeds  in  the  place  of  the  backlog. 

Here  I  sat,  with  those  roofless  walls  about  me,  the 
clear  sky  over  my  bead,  and  the  afternoon  sunshine 
falling  gently  bright  througii  the  window-frames  and 
doorway.  I  heard  the  tinkling  of  a  cow-bell,  the  twit- 
tering of  birds,  and  the  ])lcasant  hum  of  insects.  Once 
a  gay  butterfly,  with  four  gold-speckled  wings,  came 
and  fluttered  about  my  head,  then  flew  up  and  lighted 
on  the  highest  tuft  of  yellow  flowers,  and  at  last  took 
wing  across  the  lake.  Next  a  bee  buzzed  througii  the 
sunshine,  and  found  much  sweetness  among  the  weeds. 
After  watching  him  till  he  went  ofl"  to  his  distant  hive,  I 
closed  my  eyes  on  Ticonderoga  in  ruins,  and  cast  a 
dream-like  glance  over  pictures  of  the  past,  and  scenes 
of  which  this  spot  had  been  the  theatre. 

At  first,  my  fancy  saw  only  the  stern  hills,  lonely 
lakes,  and  venerable  woods.  Not  a  tree,  since  their 
seeds  were  first  scattered  over  the  infant  soil,  had  felt 
the  axe,  but  had  grown  up  and  flourished  through  its 
long  generation,  had  fallen  beneath  the  weight  of  years, 
b^en  buried  in  green  moss,  and  nourished  the  roots  of 
others  as  gigantic.  Hark !  A  light  paddle  dips  into 
the  lake,  a  birch  canoe  glides  round  the  ])oint,  and  an 
Indian  chief  has  passed,  painted  and  feather-crested, 
armed  with  a  bow  of  hickory,  a  stone  tomahawk,  and 
flint-headed  arrows.  But  the  ripple  had  hardly  vanished 
from   the    water,  wheu  a  white  flag  caught  the  breeze. 


212  OLD    TICOXDEROGA. 

over  a  castle  iu  the  wilderness,  with  frowning  ramparts 
and  a  hundred  cannon.  There  stood  a  f  rench  chevalier, 
commandant  of  the  fortress,  paying  court  to  a  copper- 
colored  lady,  the  princess  of  the  land,  and  winning  her 
wdld  love  by  the  arts  which  had  been  successful  with 
Parisian  dames.  A  war-party  of  French  and  Indians 
were  issuing  from  the  gate  to  lay  waste  some  village  of 
New  England.  Near  the  fortress  there  was  a  group  of 
dancers.  The  merry  soldiers  footing  it  with  the  swart 
savage  maids ;  deeper  in  the  wood,  some  red  men  were 
growing  frantic  around  a  keg  of  the  fire-water  ;  and  else- 
where a  Jesuit  preached  the  faith  of  high  cathedrals 
beneath  a  canopy  of  forest  boughs,  and  distributed  cruci- 
fixes to  be  worn  beside  English  scalps. 

I  tried  to  make  a  series  of  pictures  from  the  old 
French  war,  when  fleets  were  on  the  lake  and  armies 
in  the  woods,  and  especially  of  Absrcrombie's  disastrous 
repulse,  where  thousands  of  lives  were  utterly  thrown 
away ;  but,  being  at  a  loss  how  to  order  the  battle,  I 
cliose  an  evening  scene  in  the  barracks,  after  the  fortress 
had  surrendered  to  Sir  Jeffrey  Amherst.  What  an  im- 
mense fire  blazes  on  that  hearth,  gleaming  on  swords, 
bayonets,  and  musket-barrels,  and  blending  with  the  hue 
of  the  scarlet  coats  till  the  whole  barrack-room  is  quiver- 
ing with  ruddy  light !  One  soldier  has  thrown  himself 
down  to  rest,  after  a  deer-hunt,  or  perhaps  a  long  run 
through  the  woods  with  Indians  on  his  trail.  Two 
stand  up  to  wrestle,  and  are  on  the  point  of  coming  to 
blows.  A  fifer  plays  a  shrill  accompaniment  to  a  drum- 
mer's song,  —  a  strain  of  light  love  and  bloody  war,  with 
a  chorus  thundered  forth  by  tAventy  voices.  ^leantime, 
a  veteran  in  the  corner  is  prosing  aboiit  Dettingen  and 
Fontenoye,  and  relates  camp-traditions  of  ^Marlborough's 
battles,  till  his  pipe,  having  been  roguishly  charged  with 


OLD    TICONDEROGA.  213 

gunpowder,  makes  a  terrible  explosion  under  his  nose. 
And  now  they  all  vanish  in  a  pull'  of  smoke  from  the 
chimney. 

I  merely  glanced  at  the  ensuing  twenty  years,  which 
glided  peacefully  over  the  frontier  fortress,  till  Ethan 
Allen's  shout  was  heard,  summoning  it  to  surrender  "  in 
the  name  of  the  great  Jehovah  and  of  the  Continental 
Congress."  Strange  allies  !  thought  tiie  British  captain. 
Next  came  the  hurried  muster  of  tiie  soldiers  of  liberty, 
when  the  cannon  of  Bnrgoyne,  pointing  down  uj)on  their 
stronghold  fiom  the  brow  of  Mount  Defiance,  announced 
a  new  conqueror  of  Tieondcroga.  No  virgin  fortress, 
this  !  Forth  rushed  the  motley  throng  from  the  bar- 
racks, one  man  wearing  the  blue  and  buff  of  the  Union, 
another  the  red  coat  of  Britain,  a  third  a  dragoon's  jacket, 
and  a  fourth  a  cotton  frock  ;  here  was  a  ])air  of  leather 
breeches,  and  striped  trousers  there;  a  grenadier's  cap 
on  one  head,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  with  a  tall  feather, 
on  the  next ;  this  fellow  shonlderiug  a  king's  arm,  that 
might  throw  a  bullet  to  Crown  Point,  and  his  comrade  a 
long  fowling-piece,  admirable  to  shoot  ducks  on  the  lake. 
In  the  midst  of  the  bustle,  when  the  fortress  was  all  alive 
wdth  its  last  warlike  scene,  the  ringing  of  a  bell  on  the 
lake  made  me  suddenly  unclose  my  eyes,  and  behold  only 
the  gray  and  weed-grown  ruins.  They  were  as  peaceful 
in  the  sun  as  a  warrior's  grave. 

Hastening  to  the  rampart,  I  perceived  that  the  signal 
had  been  given  by  the  steamboat  Franklin,  which  landed 
a  passenger  from  AViiitehall  at  the  tavern,  and  resumed 
its  progress  northward,  to  reach  Canada  the  next  morn- 
ing. A  sloop  was  pursuing  the  same  track  ;  a  little  skilF 
had  just  crossed  the  ferry  ;  while  a  scow,  laden  with  lum- 
ber, s|)read  its  huge  square  sail,  and  went  up  the  lake. 
The  whole  country  was  a  cultivated  farm,     "Within  nms- 


214  OLD    TICOXDEROGA. 

ket-shot  of  the  ramparts  lay  the  neat  villa  of  Mr.  Pell, 
who,  since  the  Revolution,  has  become  proprietor  of  a 
spot  for  which  Trance,  England,  and  America  have  so 
often  struggled.  How  forcibly  the  lapse  of  time  and 
change  of  circumstances  came  home  to  my  apprehen- 
sion. Banner  would  never  wave  again,  nor  cannon  roar, 
nor  blood  be  shed,  nor  trumpet  stir  up  a  soldier's  heart, 
in  this  old  fort  of  Ticonderoga.  Tall  trees  have  grown 
upon  its  ramparts,  since  the  last  garrison  marched  out, 
to  return  no  more,  or  only  at  some  dreamer's  summons, 
gliding  from  the  twilight  past  to  vanish  among  realites. 


THE  WIVES    OF    THE   DEAD. 


HE  following  story,  the  simple  and  domestic  in- 
cidents of  which  may  be  deemed  scarcely  "Nvorlii 
relating,  after  such  a  lapse  of  time,  awakened 
some  degree  of  interest,  a  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  princi- 
pal seaport  of  the  Bay  Province.  The  rainy  twilight  of 
an  autumn  day,  — a  parlor  on  the  second  floor  of  a  small 
Louse,  plainly  furnished,  as  beseemed  the  middling  cir- 
cumstances of  its  inhabitants,  yet  decorated  with  little 
curiosities  from  beyond  the  sea,  and  a  few  delicate  speci- 
mens of  Indian  manufacture,  —  these  are  the  only  partic- 
ulars to  be  ))remised  in  regard  to  scene  and  season.  Two 
young  and  comely  women  sat  together  hy  tlie  iircside, 
nursing  their  mutual  and  peculiar  sorrows.  They  were 
the  recent  brides  of  two  brothers,  a  sailor  and  a  landsman, 
and  two  successive  days  had  brought  tidings  of  the  death 
of  each,  by  the  chances  of  Canadian  warfare  and  tiie  tem- 
pestuous Atlantic.  The  universal  sympathy  excited  by 
this  bereavement  drew  numerous  condoling  guests  to  the 
habitation  of  the  widowed  sisters.  Several,  among  whom 
was  the  minister,  had  remained  till  the  verge  of  evening; 
when,  one  hy  one,  whis])ering  many  comft)rtable  ]):is- 
sages  of  Scripture,  that  were  answered  by  more  abundant 
tears,  they  took  their  leave,  and  departed  to  their  own 
happier  jiomes.     The  mourners,  though  not  insensible  to 


216  THE    AYIVES    OF    THE    DEAD. 

tlie  kindiiess  of  their  friends,  had  yearned  to  be  left  aloue. 
United,  as  thej  had  been,  by  the  rehitionship  of  the  liv- 
ing, and  now  more  closely  so  by  that  of  the  dead,  each 
felt  as  if  whatever  consolation  her  grief  admitted  were  to 
be  found  in  the  bosom  of  the  other.  They  joined  tlieir 
hearts,  and  wept  together  silently.  But  after  an  hour  of 
sucli  indulgence,  one  of  the  sisters,  all  of  whose  emotions 
were  influenced  by  her  mild,  quiet,  yet  not  feeble  char- 
acter, began  to  recollect  the  precepts  of  resignation  and 
endurance  which  piety  had  taught  her,  when  she  did  not 
think  to  need  them.  Her  misfortune,  besides,  as  earliest 
known,  should  earliest  cease  to  interfere  with  her  regular 
course  of  duties  ;  accordingly,  having  placed  the  table  be- 
fore the  fire,  and  arranged  a  frugal  meal,  she  took  the 
hand  of  her  companion. 

"  Come,  dearest  sister ;  you  have  eaten  not  a  morsel 
to-day,"  she  said.  ''Arise,  I  pray  you,  and  let  us  ask  a 
blessing  on  that  which  is  provided  for  us." 

Her  sister-in-law  was  of  a  lively  and  irritable  tempera- 
ment, and  the  first  pangs  of  her  sorrow  had  been  ex- 
pressed by  shrieks  and  passionate  lamentation.  She  now 
shrunk  from  Mary's  words,  like  a  wounded  sufferer  from 
a  hand  that  revives  the  throb. 

"  There  is  no  blessing  left  for  me,  neither  will  I  ask 
it !  "  cried  Margaret, "with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears.  "  Would 
it  were  His  will  that  I  might  never  taste  food  more  !  " 

Yet  she  trembled  at  these  rebellious  expressions, 
almost  as  soon  as  they  were  uttered,  and,  by  degrees, 
Mary  succeeded  in  bringing  her  sister's  mind  nearer  to 
the  situation  of  her  own.  Time  went  on,  and  their  usual 
hour  of  repose  arrived.  The  brothers  and  their  brides, 
entering  the  married  state  with  no  more  than  the  slender 
means  which  then,  sanctioned  such  a  step,  had  confeder- 
ated themselves  in  one  household,  with  equal  rights  to 


THE  WIVES  OF  THE  DEAD.       217 

the  parlor,  and  claiming  exclusive  privileges  in  two 
sleeping-rooms  contiguous  to  it,  Tiiitlier  the  widowed 
ones  retired,  after  heaping  ashes  upon  the  dving  embers 
of  their  fire,  and  placing  a  lighted  lamp  upon  the  hearth. 
The  doors  of  both  cliambcrs  were  left  open,  so  that  a  part 
of  the  interior  of  each,  and  the  beds  with  their  unclosed 
curtains,  w^ere  reciprocally  visible.  Sleep  did  not  steal 
upon  the  sisters  at  one  and  the  same  time.  Mary  ex- 
perienced the  effect  often  consequent  upon  grief  quietly 
borne,  and  soon  sunk  into  temporary  forget  fulness, 
while  Margaret  became  more  disturbed  and  feverish,  in 
proportion  as  the  night  advanced  with  its  deepest  and 
stillest  hours.  She  lay  listening  to  the  drops  of  rain, 
that  came  down  in  monotonous  succession,  unswayed  by 
a  breath  of  wind;  and  a  nervous  impulse  continually 
caused  her  to  lift  her  head  from  the  pillow,  and  gaze  into 
Mary's  chamber  and  the  intermedL'itc  apartment.  The 
cold  light  of  the  lamp  threw  the  shadows  of  the  furniture 
up  against  the  wall,  stamping  them  immovably  tiiere, 
except  when  they  were  shaken  by  a  sudden  flicker  of 
the  flame.  Two  vacant  arm-chairs  were  in  their  old 
positions  on  opposite  sides  of  the  hearth,  where  the 
brothers  had  been  wont  to  sit  in  young  and  laughing 
dignity,  as  heads  of  families  ;  two  humbler  seats  were 
near  them,  the  true  thrones  of  that  little  empire,  where 
Mary  and  herself  had  exercised  in  love  a  power  that  love 
had  won.  The  cheerful  radiance  of  the  fire  had  shone 
upon  the  happy  circle,  and  the  dead  glimmer  of  the  lamp 
might  have  befitted  their  reunion  now.  While  ^Margaret 
groaned  in  bitterness,  she  heard  a  knock  at  the  street- 
door. 

"  How  would  my  heart  have  leapt  at  that  sound  but 
yesterday  !  "  thought  she,  remembering  the  anxiety  with 
which  she  had  long  awaited  tidings  from  her  husband. 
10 


218       THE  WIVES  OF  THE  DEAD. 

"I  care  not  for  it  now;  let  them  begone,  for  I  will  not 
arise." 

But  even  while  a  sort  of  childish  fretfulness  made  her 
thus  resolve,  she  was  breathing  hurriedly,  and  straining 
her  ears  to  catch  a  repetition  of  the  summons.  It  is 
difficult  to  be  convinced  of  the  death  of  one  whom  we 
have  deemed  another  self.  The  knocking  was  now 
renewed  in  slow  and  regular  strokes,  apparently  given 
with  the  soft  end  of  a  doubled  fist,  and  was  accompanied 
by  words,  faintly  heard  through  several  thicknesses  of 
wall.  Margaret  looked  to  her  sister's  chamber,  and 
beheld  her  still  lying  in  the  depths  of  sleep.  She  arose, 
placed  her  foot  upon  the  floor,  and  slightly  arrayed 
herself,  trembhng  between  fear  and  eagerness  as  she 
did  so. 

"  Heaven  help  me  !  "  sighed  she.  "  I  have  nothing 
left  to  fear,  and  methinks  I  am  ten  times  more  a  coward 
than  ever." 

Seizing  the  lamp  from  the  hearth,  she  hastened  to  the 
window  that  overlooked  the  street-door.  It  was  a  lattice, 
tnrning  upon  hinges  ;  and  havuig  thrown  it  back,  she 
stretched  her  head  a  little  way  into  the  moist  atmos- 
pliere.  A  lantern  was  reddening  the  front  of  the  house, 
and  melting  its  hght  in  the  neighboring  puddles,  while  a 
deluge  of  darkness  overwhelmed  every  other  object.  As 
the  Avindow  grated  on  its  hinges,  a  man  in  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  and  blanket-coat  stepped  from  under  the 
shelter  of  the  projecting  story,  and  looked  upward  to 
discover  whom  his  application  had  aroused.  Margaret 
knew  him  as  a  friendly  innkeeper  of  the  town. 

"  What  would  you  have,  Goodman  Parker  ?  "  cried  the 
widow. 

"  Lackaday,  is  it  you,  Mistress  Margaret  ?  "  replied 
the  innkeeper.     "  I  was  afraid  it  might  be  your  sister 


THE  WIVES  OF  THE  DEAD.       219 

Mary ;  for  I  liatc  to  see  a  young  Avomaii  in  trouble,  when 
I  have  n't  a  word  of  comfort  to  wiiisper  her." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  what  news  do  you  bring?'* 
screamed  Margaret. 

"  Why,  there  has  been  an  express  through  tlie  town 
within  this  half-hour,"  said  Goodman  Parker,  "  travelling 
from  the  eastern  jurisdiction  witii  letters  from  the  gov- 
ernor and  council,  lie  tarried  at  my  house  to  refresh 
himself  with  a  drop  and  a  morsel,  and  I  asked  him  what 
tidings  on  the  frontiers.  He  tells  me  we  had  the  better 
in  the  skirmish  you  wot  of,  and  that  thirteen  men 
reported  slain  arc  well  and  sound,  and  your  husband 
among  them.  Besides,  he  is  appointed  of  the  escort  to 
bring  the  captivated  Frenchers  and  Indians  home  to  the 
province  jail.  I  judged  you  would  n't  mind  being  broke 
of  your  rest,  and  so  I  stepped  over  to  tell  you.  Good 
night." 

So  saying,  the  honest  man  departed;  and  his  lantern 
gleamed  along  the  street,  bringing  to  view  indistinct 
shapes  of  things,  and  the  fragments  of  a  world,  like  order 
glimmering  through  chaos,  or  memory  roaming  over  the 
past.  But  Margaret  stayed  not  to  watch  these  pictu- 
resque effects.  Joy  Hashed  into  her  heart,  and  lighted  it 
up  at  once ;  and  breathless,  and  with  winged  steps,  she 
flew  to  the  bedside  of  her  sister.  She  paused,  however, 
at  the  door  of  the  chamber,  while  a  thought  of  pain 
broke  in  upon  her. 

•'  Poor  Mary  !  "  said  she  to  herself.  "  Shall  I  waken 
her,  to  feel  her  sorrow  sharpened  by  my  lun)piness  ?  No ; 
1  will  keep  it  within  my  own  bosom  till  the  morrow." 

She  approached  the  bed,  to  discover  if  Mary's  sleep 
were  peaceful.  Her  face  was  turned  partly  inward  to 
the  pillow,  and  had  been  hidden  there  to  weep  ;  but  a 
look  of  motionless  contentment  was  now  visible  upon  it, 


220       THE  WIVES  OF  THE  DEAD. 

as  if  her  heart,  like  a  deep  lake,  had  grown  calm  because 
its  dead  had  sunk  down  so  far  within.  Happy  is  it,  and 
strange,  that  the  lighter  sorrows  are  those  from  w^hich 
dreams  are  chiefly  fabricated.  Margaret  slirunk  from 
disturbing  her  sister-in-law,  and  felt  as  if  her  own  better 
fortune  had  rendered  her  involuntarily  unfaithful,  and 
as  if  altered  and  diminished  affection  must  be  the  con- 
sequence of  the  disclosure  she  had  to  make.  With  a 
sudden  step  she  turned  away.  But  joy  could  not  long 
be  repressed,  even  by  circumstances  that  would  have 
excited  heavy  grief  at  another  moment.  Her  mind  was 
thronged  with  delightful  thoughts,  till  sleep  stole  on,  and 
transformed  them  to  visions,  more  delightful  and  more 
Wild,  like  the  breath  of  winter  (but  what  a  cold  compari- 
son !)  working  fantastic  tracery  upon  a  window. 

When  the  night  was  far  advanced,  Mary  awoke  with 
a  sudden  start.  A  vivid  dream  had  latterly  involved 
her  in  its  unreal  life,  of  which,  however,  she  could  only 
remember  that  it  had  been  brokeu  in  upon  at  the  most 
interesting  point.  For  a  little  time,  slumber  hung  about 
her  like  a  morning  mist,  hindering  her  from  perceiving 
the  distinct  outline  of  her  situation.  She  listened  with 
imperfect  consciousness  to  two  or  three  volleys  of  a  rapid 
and  eager  knocking;  and  first  she  deemed  the  noise  a 
matter  of  course,  like  the  breath  she  drew ;  next,  it 
appeared  a  thing  in  which  she  had  no  concern  ;  and 
lastly,  she  became  aware  that  it  was  a  summons  neces- 
sary to  be  obeyed.  At  the  same  moment,  the  pang  of 
recollection  darted  into  her  mind ;  the  pall  of  sleep  was 
thrown  back  from  the  face  of  grief;  the  dim  light  of  the 
chamber,  and  the  objects  therein  revealed,  had  retained 
all  her  suspended  ideas,  and  restored  them  as  soon  as 
she  unclosed  her  eyes.  Again  there  was  a  quick  peal 
UMOu  the  street-door.     FearinGr  that  her  sister  would  also 


THE  WIVES  OF  THE  DEAD.       221 

be  disturbed,  Mary  wrapped  herself  in  a  cloak  and  hood, 
took  the  lamp  from  the  hearth,  and  hastened  to  the  win- 
dow. By  some  accident,  it  had  been  left  unhaspcd,  and 
yielded  easily  to  hor  hand. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  "  asked  ^Marv,  trembling  as  she  looked 
forth. 

The  storm  was  over,  and  the  moon  was  np  ;  it  shone 
upon  broken  clouds  above,  and  below  upon  houses  black 
with  moisture,  and  upon  little  lakes  of  the  fallen  rain, 
curling  into  silver  beneath  the  quick  enchantment  of  a 
breeze.  A  young  man  in  a  sailor's  dress,  wet  as  if  he 
had  come  out  of  the  depths  of  the  sea,  stood  alone  under 
the  window.  Mary  recognized  him  as  one  whose  liveli- 
hood was  gained  by  short  voyages  along  the  coast ;  nor 
did  she  forget  that,  previous  to  her  marriage,  he  had 
been  an  unsuccessful  wooer  of  her  own. 

"  What  do  you  seek  here,  Stephen  ?  "  .said  she. 

"  Cheer  up,  Mary,  for  I  seek  to  comfort  you,"  an- 
swered the  rejected  lover.  "  You  must  know  I  got  home 
not  ten  minutes  ago,  and  the  first  thing  my  good  mother 
told  me  was  the  news  about  your  husband.  So,  without 
saying  a  word  to  the  old  woman,  I  chijtped  on  my  hat, 
and  ran  out  of  the  house.  I  could  n't  have  slept  a  wink 
before  speaking  to  you,  ^lary,  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

"Stephen,  I  thought  better  of  you!"  exclaimed  the 
widow,  with  gushing  tears  and  preparing  to  close  tlie 
lattice;  for  she  was  no  whit  inclined  to  imitate  the  first 
wife  of  Zadig. 

"But  stop,  and  hear  my  story  out,"  cried  the  young 
sailor.  "  I  tell  you  we  spoke  a  brig  yesterday  afternoon, 
bound  in  from  Old  England.  And  mMio  do  yon  think  I 
saw  standing  on  deek,  well  and  hearty,  only  a  bit  thinner 
than  he  was  five  months  ago  ?  " 

Mary  leaned  from  the  window,  but  could  not  speak. 


222       THE  Wn'ES  OF  THE  DEAD. 

"  Why,  it  Avas  your  Imsbaud  himself,"  coutiuued  the 
generous  seaman.  "He  aud  three  others  saved  them- 
selves on  a  spar,  when  the  Blessing  turned  bottom  up- 
wards. The  brig  will  beat  into  the  bay  by  daylight,  with 
this  wind,  and  you  '11  see  him  here  to-morrow.  There  's 
the  comfort  I  bring  you,  Mary,  and  so  good  night." 

He  hurried  away,  wliile  Mary  watched  him  with  a 
doubt  of  waking  reality,  that  seemed  stronger  or  weaker 
as  he  alternately  entered  the  shade  of  the  houses,  or 
emerged  into  the  broad  streaks  of  moonliglit.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  a  blessed  flood  of -conviction  swelled  into 
her  heart,  in  strength  enough  to  overwhelm  her,  had  its 
increase  been  more  abrupt.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
rouse  her  sister-in-law,  and  communicate  the  new-boru 
gladness.  She  opened  the  chamber-door,  Avhich  had  been 
closed  in  the  course  of  the  night,  though  not  latched, 
advanced  to  the  bedside,  and  was  about  to  lay  her  hand 
upon  the  slumberer's  shoulder.  But  then  she  remem- 
bered that  Margaret  would  awake  to  thoughts  of  death 
and  woe,  rendered  not  the  less  bitter  by  their  contrast 
with  her  own  felicity.  She  suff'ered  the  rays  of  the  lamp 
to  fall  upon  the  unconscious  form  of  the  bereaved  one. 
Margaret  lay  in  unquiet  sleep,  and  the  drapery  was 
displaced  around  her ;  her  young  cheek  was  rosy-tinted, 
and  her  lips  half  opened  in  a  vivid  smile  ;  an  expression 
of  joy,  debarred  its  passage  by  her  sealed  eyelids,  strug- 
gled fortli  like  incense  from  the  whole  countenance. 

"  My  poor  sister  !  you  will  waken  too  soon  from  tLat 
happy  dream,"  thought  Mary. 

Before  retiring,  she  set  down  tlie  lamp,  and  endeavored 
to  arrange  the  bedclothes  so  that  the  chill  air  might 
not  do  harm  to  the  feverish  slumberer.  But  her  hand 
trembled  against  Margaret's  neck,  a  tear  also  fell  upon 
her  cheek,  and  she  suddenlv  awoke. 


LITTLE    DAFFYDOWNDILLY. 


Wt 


MTYDOAVXDILLY  was  so  called  Ixcauso  in 
liis  nature  lie  resembled  a  flower,  and  loved  to 
do  only  what  was  beautiful  and  agreeable,  and 
took  no  delight  in  labor  of  any  kind.  But,  while  Daffy- 
downdilly  was  yet  a  little  boy,  his  mother  sent  him  away 
from  his  pleasant  home,  and  put  him  under  the  care  of 
a  very  strict  schoolmaster,  who  went  by  the  name  of  Mr. 
Toil.  Those  who  knew  him  best  affirmed  that  this  Mr. 
Toil  was  a  very  worthy  character;  and  that  he  had  done 
more  good,  both  to  children  and  grown  people,  than  any- 
body else  in  the  world.  Certainly  he  had  lived  long 
enough  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good ;  for,  if  all  stories  be 
true,  he  had  dwelt  upon  earth  ever  since  Adam  was 
driven  from  the  garden  of  Eden. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Toil  had  a  severe  and  ugly  counte- 
nance, especially  for  such  little  boys  or  big  men  as  were 
inclined  to  be  idle ;  liis  voice,  too,  was  harsh  ;  and  all 
liis  ways  and  customs  seemed  very  disagreeable  to  our 
friend  Daffydowndilly.  The  whole  day  long,  this  terri- 
ble old  schoolmaster  sat  at  his  desk  overlooking  the 
scholars,  or  stalked  about  the  school-rooui  with  a  certain 
awful  birch  rod  in  his  hand.  Now  came  a  rap  over  the 
shoulders  of  a  boy  whoui  Mr.  Toil  had  caught  at  play  ; 
now  he  punished  a  whole  class  who  were  behindhand 


224^  LITTLE    DAFFYDOWNDILLY. 

vrifh.  their  lessons ;  and,  in  short,  unless  a  lad  chose  to 
attend  quietly  and  constantly  to  his  book,  he  had  no 
chance  of  enjoying  a  quiet  moment  in  the  school-room 
of  Mr.  Toil. 

"This  will  never  do  for  me,"  thou^^ht  DafFydowndilly. 

Now,  the  whole  of  Da%downdilly's  life  had  hitherto 
been  passed  with  his  dear  mother,  who  had  a  much 
sweeter  face  than  old  Mr.  Toil,  and  who  had  always 
been  very  indulgent  to  her  little  boy.  No  wonder, 
therefore,  that  poor  Daffy downd illy  found  it  a  woful 
cliange,  to  be  sent  away  from  the  good  lady's  side,  and 
put  under  the  care  of  this  ugly-visaged  schoolmaster, 
Avho  never  gave  him  any  apples  or  cakes,  and  seemed 
to  think  that  little  boys  were  created  only  to  get  lessons. 

"  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer,"  said  Daffydowndilly  to 
himself,  when  he  had  been  at  school  about  a  week.  "  I  '11 
run  away,  and  try  to  find  my  dear  mother ;  and,  at  any 
rate,  I  shall  never  find  anybody  half  so  disagreeable  as 
this  old  Mr.  Toil !  " 

So,  the  very  next  moniing,  off  started  poor  Daffydown- 
dilly, and  began  his  rambles  about  the  world,  with  only 
some  bread  and  cheese  for  his  breakfast,  and  very  little 
pocket-money  to  pay  his  expenses.  But  he  had  gone 
only  a  short  distance,  when  he  overtook  a  man  of  grave 
and  sedate  appearance,  Avho  was  trudging  at  a  moderate 
pace  along  the  road. 

"Good  morning,  my  fine  lad,"  said  the  stranger;  and 
his  voice  seemed  hard  and  severe,  but  yet  had  a  sort 
of  kindness  in  it ;  "  whence  do  you  come  so  early,  and 
whither  are  you  going  ?  " 

Little  Daffydowndilly  was  a  boy  of  very  ingenuous  dis- 
position, and  had  never  been  known  to  tell  a  lie  in  all 
his  life.  Nor  did  he  tell  one  now.  He  hesitated  a 
moment  or  two,  but  finally  confessed  that  he  had  run 


LITTLE    DAFIYDOWXUILLY.  'ZZO 

a'tt'ay  from  school,  on  account  of  liis  prreat  dislike  to 
Mr.  Toil ;  and  that  lie  Mas  resolved  to  find  sonic  place 
in  the  world  where  he  should  never  see  or  hear  of  the 
old  schoolmaster  again. 

"O,  very  well,  my  little  friend  !  "  answered  the  stran- 
ger. "Then  we  will  go  together;  for  T,  likewise,  have 
liad  a  good  deal  to  do  with  ^Ir.  Toil,  and  should  be  glad 
to  find  some  place  where  he  was  never  heard  of." 

Our  friend  Daftydowndilly  would  have  been  better 
pleased  with  a  comi)anion  of  his  own  age,  with  whom 
lie  might  have  gathered  flowers  along  the  roadside,  or 
have  chased  buttevflies,  or  have  done  many  other  things 
to  make  the  journey  pleasant.  But  he  had  wisdom 
enough  to  understand  that  he  sliould  get  along  tiinjiigh 
the  world  much  easier  by  having  a  man  of  experience 
to  show  him  the  way.  So  he  accepted  the  stranger's 
proposal,  and  they  walked  on  very  sociably  together. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  when  the  road  passed  by  a 
field  where  some  haymakers  were  at  work,  mowing 
down  the  tall  grass,  and  spreading  it  out  in  the  sun 
to  dry.  Daffydowndilly  was  delighted  with  the  sweet 
smell  of  the  new-mown  grass,  and  thought  how  much 
pleasanter  it  must  be  to  make  hay  in  the  sunshine,  under 
the  blue  sky,  and  with  the  birds  singing  sweetly  in  the 
neighboring  trees  and  bushes,  than  to  be  shut  up  in  a 
dismal  school-room,  learning  lessons  all  day  long,  and 
continually  scolded  by  old  Mr.  Toil.  But,  in  the  midst 
of  these  thoughts,  while  he  was  stopping  to  peep  over 
the  stone  wall,  he  started  back  and  caught  hold  of  his 
companion's  hand. 

"Quick,  quick  i  "  cried  he.  "Let  us  run  away,  or  he 
will  catch  us  !  " 

"Who  will  catch  us?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Mr.  Toil,  the  old  schoolmaster!"  answered  Dall'v- 
10*  o  ' 


226  LITTLE    DAFFYDOWXDILLY. 

downdillj.  "Dou't  you  see  him  amongst  the  hay- 
makers F  " 

Aiid  Daffydo^vndilly  pointed  to  an  elderly  man,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  owner  of  the  field,  and  the  employer 
of  the  men  at  work  there.  He  had  stripped  off  his  coat 
and  waistcoat,  and  was  busily  at  work  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 
The  drops  of  sweat  stood  upon  his  brow;  but  he  gave 
himself  not  a  moment's  rest,  and  kept  crying  out  to  the 
haymakers  to  make  hay  wliile  the  sun  shone.  Now, 
strange  to  say,  the  figure  and  features  of  this  old  farmer 
were  precisely  the  same  as  those  of  old  Mr.  Toil,  who, 
at  that  very  moment,  must  have  been  just  entering  his 
school-room. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  the  stranger.  "This  is  not 
Mr.  Toil  the  schoolmaster,  but  a  brother  of  his,  who  was 
bred  a  farmer;  and  people  say  he  is  the  most  disagree- 
able man  of  the  two.  However,  he  won't  trouble  you, 
unless  you  become  a  laborer  on  the  farm." 

Little  Dafi\-dowudilly  believed  what  his  companion 
said,  but  was  very  glad,  nevertheless,  when  they  were 
out  of  siglit  of  the  old  farmer,  who  bore  such  a  suigidar 
resemblance  to  Mr.  Toil.  The  two  travellers  had  gone 
but  little  farther,  when  they  came  to  a  spot  where  some 
carpenters  were  erecthig  a  house.  Daffydowndilly  beggad 
his  companion  to  stop  a  moment ;  for  it  was  a  very  pretty 
sight  to  see  how  neatly  the  carpenters  did  their  work, 
with  their  broad-axes,  and  saws,  and  planes,  and  ham- 
mers, shaping  out  the  doors,  and  putting  in  the  window- 
sashes,  and  nailing  on  the  clapboards ;  and  he  could  not 
help  thinking  that  he  should  like  to  take  a  broad-axe,  a 
saw,  a  plane,  and  a  hammer,  and  build  a  little  house  for 
himself.  And  then,  when  he  should  have  a  house  of  his 
own,  old  Mr.  Toil  would  never  dare  to  molest  him. 

But,  just  while  he  was  delighthig  himself  with  this 


LITTLE    DAFFYDOWXDILLY.  227 

idea,  little  Daily dowudilly  beheld  sometliiiifr  that  made 
liini  eatcli  hold  of  his  coinpauion's  hand,  all  in  a  fright. 

"  Make  haste.  Quick,  quick  !  "  cried  he.  "  Tiicre  he 
is  again !  " 

"Who?"  asked  the  stranger,  very  quietly. 

"  Old  Mr.  Toil,"  said  Uali'ydowndilly,  trembling. 
"  Tliere !  he  that  is  overseeing  the  carpenters.  'T  is 
my  old  schoolmaster,  as  sure  as  1  'm  alive  !  " 

The  stranger  cast  his  eyes  where  Daflydowndilly 
pointed  his  linger  ;  and  he  saw  an  elderly  man,  with  a 
carpenter's  rule  and  comj)asses  in  his  hand.  This  per- 
son went  to  and  fro  about  the  unfinished  house,  meas- 
uring pieces  of  timber,  and  marking  out  the  work  that 
was  to  be  done,  and  continually  exhorting  the  other 
carpenters  to  be  diligent.  And  wherever  he  turned  ids 
hard  and  wrinkled  visage,  the  men  seemed  to  feel  that 
they  had  a  task-master  over  them,  and  sawed,  and  ham- 
mered, and  planed,  as  if  for  dear  life. 

"  0  no!  this  is  not  Mr.  Toil,  the  schoolmaster,"  said 
the  stranger.  "  It  is  another  brother  of  his,  who  follows 
the  trade  of  carj)enter." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  quoth  DafTydowndilly  ; 
"  but  if  you  please,  sir,  I  should  like  to  get  out  of  his 
way  as  soon  as  possible." 

Then  they  went  on  a  little  farther,  and  soon  heard 
the  sound  of  a  drum  and  life.  Daffydowndilly  ])rieked 
up  his  ears  at  this,  and  besought  his  companion  to  hurry 
forward,  that  they  might  not  miss  seeing  the  soldiers. 
Accordingly,  they  made  what  haste  tiiey  could,  and  soon 
met  a  company  of  soldiers,  gayly  dressed,  with  beautiful 
feathers  in  their  ca])S,  and  bright  muskets  on  their  shoul- 
ders. In  front  marched  two  drummers  and  two  lilVrs, 
beating  on  their  drums  and  playing  on  their  lifes  with 
might  and  main,  and  making  sucli  lively  music  that  little 


22 S  LITTLE    DAFFYDOWXDILLY. 

Daffydowndilly  would  gladly  have  followed  tliem  to  tlie 
end  of  the  world.  And  if  lie  was  only  a  soldier,  then, 
he  said  to  himself,  old  Mr.  Toil  would  never  venture  to 
look  him  in  the  face. 

"Quick  step!  Eorward  march!"  shouted  a  gruff 
voice. 

Little  Daffydowndilly  started,  in  great  dismay;  for 
this  voice  which  had  spoken  to  the  soldiers  sounded 
precisely  the  same  as  that  which  he  had  heard  every 
day  in  Mr.  Toil's  school-room,  out  of  Mr.  Toil's  own 
mouth.  And,  turning  his  eyes  to  the  captain  of  the 
company,  what  sliould  he  see  but  the  very  image  of  old 
Mr.  Toil  himself,  with  a  smart  cap  and  feather  on  his 
head,  a  pair  of  gold  epaulets  on  his  shoulders,  a  laced 
coat  on  his  back,  a  purple  sash  round  his  waist,  and 
a  long  sword,  instead  of  a  birch  rod,  in  his  hand.  And 
though  he  held  his  head  so  high,  and  strutted  like  a 
turkey-cock,  still  he  looked  quite  as  ugly  and  disagree- 
able as  when  he  was  hearing  lessons  in  the  school- 
room. 

"  This  is  certainly  old  Mr.  Toil,"  said  Daffydowndilly, 
in  a  trembling  voice.  "  Let  us  run  away,  for  fear  he 
should  make  us  enlist  in  his  company ! " 

"  You  are  mistaken  again,  my  little  friend,"  replied 
the  stranger,  very  composedly.  "This  is  not  Mr.  Toil, 
the  schoolmaster,  but  a  brother  of  his,  who  has  served 
in  the  army  all  his  life.  People  say  he 's  a  terribly 
severe  fellow ;  but  you  and  I  need  not  be  afraid  of 
him." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  little  Daffydowndilly,  "  but,  if  you 
please,  sir,  I  don't  went  to  see  the  soldiers  any  more." 

So  the  child  and  the  stranger  resumed  their  journey ; 
and,  by  and  by,  they  came  to  a  house  by  the  roadside, 
where  a  number  of  people  were  making  merry.     Young 


LITTLE    DAFrVDOWXDlLLY.  H'ZO 

men  and  rosy-clicckcd  giils,  witli  smiles  on  their  faces, 
were  dancing  to  the  sound  of  a  fiddle.  It  was  the  |)leas- 
antest  sight  that  Dafrvdowndilly  had  yet  met  with,  and 
it  comforted  him  for  all  his  disappointments. 

"  O,  let  us  stop  here,"  cried  he  to  his  companion; 
"for  Mr.  Toil  will  never  dare  to  show  his  face  wlure 
there  is  a  fiddler,  and  where  people  are  dancing  ai.d 
making  merry.     We  shall  be  qnile  safe  Ijcre  !  " 

But  these  last  words  .died  away  upon  DafTydowndilly's 
tongue;  for,  happening  to  east  his  eyes  on  the  fiddU  r, 
whom  shonld  he  behold  again,  bnt  the  likeness  of  ^Ir. 
Toil,  holding  a  liddle-bow  instead  of  a  birch  rod,  and 
flonrishing  it  with  as  much  ease  and  dexterity  as  if  lie 
liad  been  a  fiddler  all  his  life  !  He  had  somewhat  tiie 
air  of  a  Ffeuehman,  bnt  still  looked  exactly  like  the  old 
schoolmaster;  and  Daffydowndilly  even  fancied  that  ho 
nodded  and  winked  at  him,  and  made  signs  for  him  to 
join  in  the  dance. 

"O  dear  me!"  whispered  he,  turning  pale.  "It 
seems  as  if  there  Avas  nobody  but  Mr.  Toil  in  the 
world.  Who  could  have  thought  of  his  playing  on  a 
fiddle  !  " 

"This  is  not  your  old  schoolmaster,"  observed  the 
stranger,  "but  another  brother  of  his,  who  was  bred  in 
France,  where  he  learned  the  profession  of  a  fiddler. 
He  is  ashamed  of  his  family,  and  generally  calls  himself 
Monsieur  le  Plaisir;  but  liis  real  name  is  Toil,  and  those 
who  have  known  him  best  think  him  still  more  disagree- 
able than  his  brothers." 

"  Pray  let  us  go  a  little  farther,"  said  D.'ifi'yduwndilly. 
"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  tliis  fiddler  at  all." 

"Well,  thus  the  stranger  and  little  Dan;vdowndilIy 
went  wandering  along  the  higliway,  and  in  shady  lanes, 
and  through  pleasant  villages ;  and  whithersoever  they 


230  LITTLE    DAFFYDOWNDILLY. 

went,  behold  !  there  was  the  image  of  old  Mr.  Toil.  He 
stood  like  a  scarecrow  in  the  cornfields.  If  they  entered 
a  house,  he  sat  in  the  parlor;  if  they  peeped  into  the 
kitchen,  he  was  there.  He  made  himself  at  home  in 
every  cottage,  and  stole,  under  one  disguise  or  another, 
into  the  most  splendid  mansions.  Everywhere  there 
was  sure  to  be  somebody  wearing  the  likeness  of  Mr. 
Toil,  and  who,  as  the  stranger  affirmed,  was  one  of  the 
old  schoolmaster's  innumerable  brethren. 

Little  Daffydowndilly  was  almost  tired  to  death,  when 
he  perceived  some  people  reclining  lazily  in  a  shady 
place,  by  the  side  of  the  road.  The  poor  child  entreated 
his  companion  that  they  might  sit  down  there,  and  take 
some  repose. 

"  Old  Mr.  Toil  will  never  come  here,"  said  he ;  "  for 
he  hates  to  see  people  taking  their  ease." 

But,  even  while  he  spoke,  Daffy  do  wnd  illy 's  eyes  fell 
upon  a  person  who  seemed  the  laziest,  and  heaviest,  and 
most  torpid  of  all  those  lazy  and  heavy  and  torpid 
people  who  had  lain  down  to  sleep  in  the  shade.  Who 
should  it  be,  again,  but  the  very  image  of  Mr.  Toil ! 

"There  is  a  large  family  of  these  Toils,"  remarked 
the  stranger.  "  This  is  anotlier  of  the  old  schoolmaster's 
brothers,  who  was  bred  in  Italy,  where  he  acquired  very 
idle  habits,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  Signor  Far  Niente. 
He  pretends  to  lead  an  easy  life,  but  is  really  the  most 
miserable  fellow  in  the  family." 

"  0,  take  me  back  !  —  take  me  back  I  "  cried  poor 
little  Daffydowndilly,  bursting  into  tears.  "  If  there  is 
nothing  but  Toil  all  the  world  over,  I  may  just  as  well  go 
back  to  the  school-house  !  " 

"  Yonder  it  is,  —  there  is  the  school-house  !  "  said  the 
stranger;  for  though  he  and  little  Daffydowndilly  liad 
taken  a  great  many  steps,  they  had  travelled  in  a  circle. 


LITTLE    DAFFYDOWXDILLY.  2ol 

instead  of  a  strai^Mit  line.  "  Come ;  we  will  go  ))ack  to 
school  together." 

There  \yis  something  in  his  companion's  voice  that 
little  Dalfydowndilly  now  remembered;  and  it  is  sli-nnge 
that  he  had  not  remembered  it  sooner.  Looking  up  into 
his  face,  behold!  there  again  was  the  likeness  of  old  Mr. 
Toil;  so  that  the  poor  ciiild  had  been  in  company  with 
ToU  all  day,  even  while  he  was  doing  his  i)est  to  run 
away  from  him.  Some  people,  to  whom  I  have  told  little 
Datl'ydowndiliy's  story,  are  of  opinion  tliat  old  Mr.  Toil 
was  a  magician,  and  possessed  the  power  of  multiplying 
himself  into  as  many  shapes  as  he  saw  fit. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  little  D.dlydowndilly  had  learned  a 
good  lesson,  and  from  that  time  forward  was  diligent  at 
his  task,  because  he  knew  that  diligence  is  not  a  whit 
more  toilsome  than  sj)ort  or  idleness.  And  when  he 
became  better  acquainted  with  Mr.  Toil,  he  began  to 
think  that  his  ways  were  not  so  very  disagreeable,  and 
that  the  old  schoolmaster's  smile  of  approl)ation  made 
his  face  almost  as  pleasant  as  even  that  of  Daflydowu- 
dilly's  mother. 


MY  KINSMAN,  MAJOR  MOLINEUX. 

PTER  tlie  kings  of  Great  Britain  had  assumed 
the  right  of  appointing  the  colonial  governors, 

the  measures  of  tlie  latter  seldom  met  with  the 

ready  and  general  approbation  which  had  been  paid  to 
those  of  their  predecessors,  under  the  original  charters. 
The  people  looked  witii  most  jealous  scrutiny  to  the  ex- 
ercise of  power  which  did  not  emanate  from  themselves, 
and  they  usually  rewarded  their  rulers  with  slender  grat- 
itude for  the  compliances  by  which,  in  softening  their 
instructions  from  beyond  the  sea,  they  had  incurred  tin 
reprehension  of  those  who  gave  them.  The  annals  of 
Massachusetts  Bay  will  inform  us,  that  of  six  governors 
in  the  space  of  about  forty  years  from  the  surrender  of 
the  old  charter,  under  James  II.,  two  were  imprisoned 
by  a  popular  insurrection  ;  a  third,  as  Hutchinson  in- 
clines to  believe,  was  driven  from  the  province  by  the 
whizzing  of  a  musket-ball ;  a  fourth,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  same  liistorian,  was  hastened  to  his  grave  by  contin- 
ual bickerings  with  the  House  of  Representatives  ;  and 
the  remaining  two,  as  well  as  their  successors,  till  the 
Revolution,  were  favored  with  few  and  brief  intervals  of 
peaceful  sway.  The  inferior  members  of  the  court  party, 
in  times  of  high  political  excitement,  led  scarcely  a  more 
desirable  life.  Tliese  remarks  may  serve  as  a  preface  to 
the  following  adventures,  which  chanced  upon  a  summer 


MY    KINSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  :2.'3.3 

night,  not  far  from  a  hundred  years  ago.  Tlie  reader,  in 
order  to  avoid  a  long  and  dry  detail  of  colonial  all'airs,  is 
requested  to  dispense  with  an  account  of  tiic  train  of 
circumstances  that  had  caused  much  temporary  inflam- 
mation of  the  popular  mind. 

It  was  near  nine  o'clock  of  a  moonlight  evening,  wlion 
a  boat  crossed  the  ferry  with  a  single  passenger,  who  had 
obtained  his  conveyance  at  that  unusual  hour  by  the 
promise  of  an  extra  fare.  AVhile  he  stood  on  the  land- 
ing-place, searching  in  either  pocket  for  the  means  of 
fulfilHng  his  agreement,  the  ferryman  lifted  a  lantern,  by 
the  aid  of  which,  and  the  newly  risen  moon,  he  took  a 
very  accurate  survey  of  the  stranger's  figure.  He  was  a 
youth  of  barely  eighteen  years,  evidently  country -bred, 
and  now,  as  it  should  seem,  upon  his  first  visit  to  town. 
He  was  clad  in  a  coarse  gray  coat,  well  worn,  but  in 
excellent  repair ;  his  under  garments  were  durably  con- 
structed of  leather,  and  fitted  tight  to  a  pair  of  service- 
able and  well-shaped  limbs  ;  his  stockings  of  blue  yarn 
were  the  incontrovertible  work  of  a  mother  or  a  sister  ; 
and  on  his  head  was  a  three-cornered  hat,  wliich  in  its 
better  days  had  perhaps  sheltered  the  graver  brow  of  the 
lad's  father.  L'nder  his  left  arm  was  a  heavy  cudgel, 
formed  of  an  oak  sapling,  and  retaining  a  i)art  of  the 
hardened  root ;  and  his  equipment  was  completed  by  a 
■wallet,  not  so  abundantly  stocked  as  to  incommode  the 
vigorous  slioulders  on  which  it  hung.  Brown,  curly  hair, 
well-shaped  features,  and  briglit,  cheerfnl  eyes  were 
nature's  gifts,  and  worth  all  that  art  could  have  done  for 
his  adornment. 

The  youth,  one  of  whose  names  was  Robin,  finally 
drew  from  his  pocket  the  half  of  a  little  province  bill  of 
five  shillings,  Avhieh,  in  the  de])reciati()n  of  that  sort  of 
currency,  did  but  satisfy  the  ferryman's  demand,  with 


2.34  MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX. 

the  surplus  of  a  scxangular  piece  of  parchment,  vahied  at 
three  pence.  He  then  walked  forward  into  the  town, 
with  as  light  a  step  as  if  his  day's  journey  had  not  al- 
ready exceeded  thirty  miles,  and  with  as  eager  an  eye  as 
if  he  were  entering  London  city,  instead  of  the  httle 
metropolis  of  a  New  England  colony.  Before  Robin  had 
proceeded  far,  however,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  knew 
not  whither  to  direct  his  steps  ;  so  he  paused,  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  narrow  street,  scrutinizing  the  small 
and  mean  wooden  buildings  that  were  scattered  on  either 
side. 

"This  low  hovel  cannot  be  my  kinsman's  dwelling," 
thought  he,  "  nor  yonder  old  house,  where  the  moonlight 
enters  at  the  broken  casement ;  and  truly  I  see  none 
hereabouts  that  might  be  worthy  of  him.  It  would  have 
been  wise  to  inquire  my  way  of  the  ferryman,  and  doubt- 
less he  would  have  gone  with  me,  and  earned  a  shilling 
from  the  ^lajor  for  his  pains.  But  the  next  man  I  meet 
will  do  as  well." 

He  resumed  his  walk,  and  was  glad  to  perceive  that  the 
street  now  became  wider,  and  the  houses  more  respect- 
able in  their  appearance.  He  soon  discerned  a  figure 
moving  on  moderately  in  advance,  and  hastened  his  steps 
to  overtake  it.  As  Bobin  drew  nigh,  he  saw  that  the 
passenger  was  a  man  in  years,  with  a  full  periwig  of  gray 
hair,  a  wide-skirted  coat  of  dark  cloth,  and  silk  stockings 
rolled  above  his  knees.  He  carried  a  long  and  poUshed 
cane,  which  he  struck  down  perpendicularly  before  him, 
at  everwy  step  ;  and  at  regular  intervals  he  uttered  two 
successive  hems,  of  a  peculiarly  solenni  and  sepulchral 
intonation.  Having  made  these  observations,  Robin  laid 
hold  of  the  skirt  of  the  old  man's  coat,  just  when  the 
light  from  the  open  door  and  windows  of  a  barber's  shop 
fell  upon  both  their  figures. 


MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLTXErX.  2.35 

"  Good  evening  to  you,  lionorcd  sir,  said  he,  making  a 
low  bow,  and  still  retaining  liis  hold  of  the  skirt.  "  I 
pray  you  tell  me  whereabouts  is  the  dwelling  of  my  kins- 
man, Major  Molineux." 

The  youth's  question  was  uttered  very  loudly ;  and 
one  of  the  barbers,  whose  razor  was  descending  on  a 
well-soaped  chin,  and  anotlier  who  was  dressing  a  Raui- 
illies  wig,  left  their  occupations,  and  came  to  tlie  door. 
The  citizen,  in  the  mean  time,  turned  a  long-favored  coun- 
tenance upon  llobin,  and  answered  him  in  a  tone  of  ex- 
cessive anger  and  annoyance.  His  two  sepulchral  hems, 
however,  broke  into  the  very  centre  of  his  rebuke,  with 
most  singular  eflcct,  like  a  thought  of  the  cold  grave  ob- 
truding among  wrathful  passions. 

"Let  go  my  garment,  fellow !  I  tell  yon,  I  know  not 
the  man  you  speak  of.  What!  I  have  authority,  I 
have  —  hem,  hem  —  authority  ;  and  if  this  be  the  respect 
you  show  for  your  betters,  your  feet  shall  be  brought 
acquainted  with  the  stocks  by  daylight,  to-morrow  morn- 

Robin  released  the  old  man's  skirt,  and  hastened  away, 
pursued  by  an  ill-mannered  roar  of  laughter  from  the 
barber's  shop.  He  was  at  first  considerably  surprised 
by  the  result  of  his  question,  but,  being  a  shrewd  youth, 
soon  thought  himself  able  to  account  for  the  mystery. 

"This  is  some  country  representative,"  was  his  con- 
clusion, "  who  has  never  seen  the  inside  of  my  kinsman's 
door,  and  lacks  the  breeding  to  answer  a  stranger  civ- 
illy. The  man  is  old,  or  verily  —  I  might  be  tcm])ted  to 
turn  back  and  smite  him  on  the  nose.  All,  U()l)in, 
Robin !  even  the  barber's  boys  laugh  at  you  for  choos- 
ing such  a  guide !  You  will  be  wiser  in  time,  friend 
Robin." 

He  now  became  entan":led  in  a  succession  of  crooked 


23G  MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLINEUX. 

and  narrow  streets,  wliicli  crossed  eacli  otlier,  and  mean- 
dered at  no  great  distance  from  the  water-side.  The 
smell  of  tar  was  obvious  to  his  nostrils',  the  masts  of 
vessels  pierced  the  moonlight  above  the  tops  of  tlie 
buildings,  and  the  numerous  signs,  which  Robin  paused 
to  read,  mformed  him  that  he  was  near  the  centre  of 
business.  But  the  streets  Avere  empty,  the  shops  were 
closed,  and  lights  were  visible  only  in  the  second  stories 
of  a  few  dwelling-houses.  At  length,  on  the  corner  of  a 
narrow  lane,  through  which  he  was  passing,  he  beheld 
tlie  broad  countenance  of  a  British  hero  swinging  before 
the  door  of  an  inn,  whence  proceeded  the  voices  of  many 
guests.  The  casement  of  one  of  the  lower  windows  was 
thrown  back,  and  a  very  thin  curtain  permitted  llobin 
to  distinguish  a  party  at  supper,  round  a  well-furnished 
table.  The  fragrance  of  the  good  cheer  steamed  forth 
into  the  outer  air,  and  the  youth  could  not  fail  to  recol- 
lect that  the  last  remnant  of  his  travelling  stock  of  pro- 
vision had  yielded  to  his  morning  appetite,  and  that  noon 
had  found  and  left  him  diunerless. 

"  O,  that  a  parchment  tln-ee-penny  might  give  me  a 
riglit  to  sit  down  at  yonder  table  ! "  said  Robin,  with  a 
sigh.  "But  the  Major  will  make  me  welcome  to  the 
best  of  his  victuals ;  so  I  will  even  step  boldly  in,  and 
inquire  my  way  to  his  dwelling." 

lie  entered  tlie  tavern,  and  was  guided  by  the  murmur 
of  voices  and  the  fumes  of  tobacco  to  the  public-room. 
It  was  a  long  and  low  apartment,  with  oaken  walls,  grown 
dark  in  the  continual  smoke,  and  a  floor  ^^'hich  was 
thickly  sanded,  but  of  no  immaculate  purity.  A  number 
of  persons  —  the  larger  part  of  whom  appeared  to  be 
mariners,  or  in  some  way  connected  with  the  sea — oc- 
cupied the  wooden  benches,  or  leather-bottomed  chairs, 
conversing  on  various  matters,  and  occasionally  lending 


MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  'Zo7 

ilicir  attention  to  some  topic  of  general  interest,  Tliree 
or  four  little  groups  ■were  draining  as  many  bowls  of 
punch,  which  tlie  West  India  trade  had  long  since  made 
a  familiar  drink  in  the  colony.  Others^  who  had  the 
appearance  of  men  who  lived  by  regular  and  laborious 
handicraft,  preferred  the  insulated  bliss  of  an  unshared 
potation,  and  became  more  taciturn  under  its  influence. 
Nearly  all,  in  short,  envinceJ  a  predilection  f(n-  the  Good 
Creature  in  some  of  its  various  shapes,  for  this  is  a  vic3 
to  which,  as  Fast-day  sermons  of  a  hundred  years  ago 
will  testify,  we  have  a  long  hereditary  claim.  The  only 
guests  to  whom  llobin's  sympathies  inclined  him  were 
two  or  three  sheepish  countrymen,  who  were  using  the 
inn  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  a  Turkish  caravansary ; 
they  had  gotten  themselves  into  the  darkest  corner  of 
the  room,  and,  heedless  of  the  Nicotian  atmosphere,  were 
supping  on  the  bread  of  their  own  ovens,  and  the  bacon 
cured  in  their  own  chimney-smoke.  But  though  Kobin 
felt  a  sort  of  brotherhood  with  these  strangers,  his  eyes 
were  attracted  froui  them  to  a  person  who  stood  near  the 
door,  holding  whispered  conversation  with  a  grouj)  of  ill- 
dressed  associates.  His  features  were  separately  strikiug 
almost  to  grotesqueness,  and  the  whole  face  left  a  deej) 
impression  on  the  memory.  The  forehead  bulged  out 
into  a  double  prominence,  with  a  vale  between  ;  the  nose 
came  boldly  forth  in  an  irregular  curve,  and  its  bridge  was 
of  more  than  a  finger's  breadth  ;  the  eyebrows  were  deep 
and  shaggy,  and  the  eyes  glowed  beneath  them  like  fiie 
in  a  cave. 

While  Eobin  doli])erated  of  whom  to  iiif(uirc  respecting 
his  kinsman's  dwelling,  he  was  accosted  by  the  innkeeper, 
a  little  man  in  a  stained  white  apron,  who  had  come  to 
pay  his  professional  welcome  to  the  stranger.  Being  in 
the  second   generation   from   a   Trench   Protestant,   he 


238  MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOU    MOLIXEUX. 

seemed  to  liave  inherited  the  courtesy  of  his  parent 
nation ;  but  no  variety  of  circumstances  was  ever  known 
to  change  his  voice  from  the  one  shrill  note  in  M'hich  he 
now  addressed  Robin. 

"  From  the  country,  I  presume,  sir  ?  "  said  he,  with  a 
profound  bow.  "  Beg  leave  to  congratulate  you  on  your 
arrival,  and  trust  you  intend  a  long  stay  with  us.  Fhie 
town  here,  sir,  beautiful  buildings,  and  much  that  may 
interest  a  stranger.  May  I  hope  for  the  honor  of  your 
connnands  in  respect  to  supper!"'  " 

"The  man  sees  a  family  likeness!  the  rogue  has 
guessed  that  I  am  related  to  the  Major ! "  thought 
Robin,  who  had  hitherto  experienced  little  superfluous 
civility. 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  on  the  country  lad,  standing 
at  the  door,  in  his  worn  three-cornered  hat,  gray  coat, 
leather  breeches,  and  blue  yarn  stockings,  leaning  on  an 
oaken  cudgel,  and  bearing  a  wallet  on  his  back. 

Robin  replied  to  the  courteous  innkeeper,  with  such  an 
assumption  of  confidence  as  befitted  the  Major's  relative. 
"My  honest  friend,"  he  said,  "I  shall  make  it  a  point  to 
patronize  your  house  on  some  occasion,  when" — here 
he  could  not  help  lowering  his  voice  —  "when  I  may 
have  more  than  a  parchment  three-pence  in  my  pocket. 
My  present  business,"  continued  he,  speaking  with  lofty 
confidence,  "  is  merely  to  inquire  my  way  to  the  dwelling 
of  my  kinsman.  Major  Molineux." 

There  was  a  sudden  and  general  movement  in  the 
room,  which  Robin  interpreted  as  expressing  the  eager- 
ness of  each  individual  to  become  his  guide.  But  the 
innkeeper  turned  his  eyes  to  a  written  paper  on  the  wall, 
which  he  read,  or  seemed  to  read,  with  occasional  recur- 
rences to  the  young  man's  tigure. 

"  What  have  we  here  ?  "  said  he,  breaking  his  speech 


MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLIXELX.  2o9 

into  little  dry  fragments.  "'Left  the  house  of  the  sub- 
scriber, bouiiden  servant,  Ilezekiah  Mudga, — had  on, 
when  he  went  away,  gray  coat,  leather  breeches,  master's 
third-best  hat.  One  pound  currency  reward  to  wlioso- 
ever  shall  lodge  him  in  any  jail  of  the  ])rovince.'  13ctter 
trudge,  boy,  better  trudge  !  " 

Robin  had  begun  to  draw  his  hand  towards  the  lighter 
end  of  the  oak  cudgel,  but  a  strange  hostility  in  every 
countenance  induced  him  to  relinquish  his  purpose  of 
breaking  the  courteous  innkeeper's  head.  As  he  turned 
to  leave  the  room,  he  encountered  a  sneering  glance  from 
the  bold-featured  personage  whom  he  had  before  noticed  ; 
and  no  sooner  was  he  beyond  the  door,  than  he  heard 
a  general  langh,  in  which  the  innkeeper's  voice  niigjjt  be 
distinguished,  like  the  dro])ping  of  small  stones  into  a 
kettle. 

"Now,  is  it  not  strange,"  thought  llobin,  wilh  his 
usual  shrewdness,  —  "  is  it  not  strange  that  the  confession 
of  an  empty  pocket  should  outweigh  tlie  name  of  my 
kinsman,  Miijor  Molineux?  O,  if  I  had  one  of  tiiose 
grinning  rascals  in  the  woods,  where  I  and  my  oak  sa|)- 
ling  grew  up  together,  I  would  leaeh  him  that  my  arm 
is  heavy,  though  my  purse  be  light !  " 

On  turning  the  corner  of  the  narrow  lane,  Ilobin  found 
himself  in  a  spacious  street,  with  an  unbroken  line  of 
lofty  houses  on  each  side,  and  a  steepled  building  at  the 
upper  end,  whence  the  ringing  of  a  bell  announced  the 
hour  of  nine.  The  light  of  the  moon,  and  the  lamps  from 
the  numerous  shop-windows,  discovered  })eople  ])rome- 
nading  on  the  pavement,  and  amongst  them  Robin  hoped 
to  recognize  his  hitherto  inscrutable  relative.  The  result 
of  his  former  inquiries  made  him  unwilling  to  hazard 
anotlier,  in  a  scene  of  such  pulilicity,  and  he  determined 
to  walk  slowly  and  silently  up  the  street,  thrusting  his 


240  MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOE.    MOLIXEUX. 

face  close  to  tliat  of  every  elderly  gentleman,  in  search 
of  the  Major's  lineaments.  In  his  progress,  Robin  en- 
countered many  gay  and  gallant  figures.  Emhroidered 
garments  of  showy  colors,  enormous  periwigs,  gold-laced 
hats,  and  silver-liilted  swords  glided  past  him  and  dazzled 
liis  optics.  Travelled  youths,  imitators  of  the  European 
fine  gentlemen  of  the  period,  trod  jauntily  along,  half 
dancing  to  the  fashionable  tunes  wliicli  they  hummed,  and 
making  poor  Robin  ashamed  of  his  quiet  and  natural 
gait.  At  length,  after  many  pauses  to  examine  the  gor- 
geous display  of  goods  in  the  shop-windows,  and  after 
suffering  some  rebukes  for  the  impertinence  of  his  scru-- 
tiny  into  people's  faces,  the  Major's  kinsman  found  him- 
self near  the  steepled  building,  still  unsuccessful  in  his 
search.  As  yet,  however,  he  had  seen  only  one  side  of 
the  thronged  street ;  so  Robin  crossed,  and  continued  the 
same  sort  of  inquisition  down  the  opposite  pavement,  with 
stronger  hopes  than  the  philosopher  seeking  an  honest 
man,  but  with  no  better  fortune.  He  had  arrived  about 
midway  tow^ards  the  lower  end,  from  which  his  course 
began,  when  he  overheard  the  approach  of  some  one  who 
struck  down  a  cane  on  the  flag-stones  at  every  step, 
uttering,  at  regular  intervals,  two  sepulchral  hems. 

"Mercy  on  us  I  "  quoth  Robin,  recognizing  the  sound. 

Turning  a  corner,  which  chanced  to  be  close  at  his 
right  hand,  he  hastened  to  pursue  his  researches  in  some 
other  part  of  the  town.  His  patience  now  was  wearing 
low,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  more  fatigue  from  his  rambles 
since  he  crossed  the  ferry,  than  from  his  journey  of 
several  days  on  the  other  side.  Hunger  also  pleaded 
loudly  within  him,  and  Robin  began  to  balance  the  pro- 
priety of  demanding,  violently,  and  with  lifted  cudgel, 
the  necessary  guidance  from  the  first  solitary  passenger 
whom  he  should  meet.     AYhile  a  resolution  to  this  effect 


JIY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  2il 

was  gaining  strength,  lie  entered  a  street  of  mean  appear- 
ance, on  either  side  of  which  a  row  of  ill-built  houses  was 
straggling  towards  the  harbor.  The  moonlight  fell  upon 
no  passenger  along  the  whole  extent,  but  in  the  third 
domicile  which  Robin-  passed  there  was  a  half-opened 
door,  and  his  keen  glance  detected  a  woman's  garment 
within. 

"]\ly  luck  may  be  better  here,"  said  he  to  himself. 

Accordingly,  he  a[)proached  the  door,  and  beheld  it 
shut  closer  as  he  did  so  ;  yet  an  open  space  remained, 
sufficing  for  the  fair  occupant  to  observe  the  stranger, 
AAithout' a  corresponding  display  on  her  part.  All  that 
Kobin  could  discern  was  a  strip  of  scarlet  petticoat,  and 
the  occasional  sparkle  of  an  eye,  as  if  the  moonbeams 
were  trembling  on  some  bright  thing. 

"  Pretty  mistress,"  for  I  may  call  her  so  with  a  good 
conscience,  thought  the  shrewd  youth,  since  I  know 
nothing  to  the  contrary,  —  "  my  sweet  pretty  mistress, 
will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  whereabouts  I  must 
seek  the  dwelling  of  my  kinsman,  Major  Molineux  ?  " 

liobin's  voice  was  ])laintive  and  winning,  and  the 
female,  seeing  notliiiig  to  be  shunned  in  the  handsome 
country  youth,  thrust  open  the  door,  and  came  forth 
into  the  moonlight.  She  was  a  dainty  little  figure,  Avitli 
a  white  neck,  round  arms,  and  a  slender  waist,  at  the 
extremity  of  which  her  scarlet  petticoat  jutted  out  over 
a  hoop,  as  if  she  were  standing  in  a  balloon.  Moreover, 
her  face  was  oval  and  pretty,  her  hair  dark  beneath  the 
little  cap,  and  her  bright  eyes  possessed  a  sly  freedom, 
which  triumj)hed  over  those  of  Robin. 

"  Major  Molineux  dwells  here,"  said  this  fair  woman. 

Now,  her  voice  was  the  sweetest  Robin  had  heard  that 
night,  the  airy  countcrj)art  of  a  stream  of  melted  silver; 
yet  he  could  not  help  doubting  whether  that  sweet  voice 
11  p 


242  MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLINEUX. 

spoke  Gospel  truth.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  mean 
street,  and  then  surveyed  tlie  house  before  which  they 
stood.  It  w^as  a  small,  dark  edifice  of  two  stories,  the 
second  of  which  projected  over  the  lower  floor;  and  the 
front  apartment  had  the  aspect  of*  a  shop  for  petty  com- 
modities. 

"  Now,  truly,  I  am  in  luck,"  replied  Robin,  cunningly, 
"  and  so  indeed  is  my  kinsman,  the  Major,  in  having  so 
pretty  a  housekeeper.  But  I  pritliee  trouble  hiui  to  step 
to  the  door  ;  I  will  deliver  him  a  message  from  his  friends 
in  the  country,  and  then  go  back  to  my  lodgings  at  the 
inn." 

"Nay,  the  Major  has  been  abed  this  hour  or  more," 
said  the  lady  of  the  scarlet  petticoat ;  "  and  it  would  be 
to  little  purpose  to  disturb  him  to-night,  seeing  his  even- 
iug  draught  Avas  of  the  strongest.  But  he  is  a  kind- 
hearted  man,  and  it  would  be  as  much  as  my  life's 
worth  to  let  a  kinsman  of  his  turn  away  from  tlie  door. 
You  are  the  good  old  gentleman's  very  picture,  and  I 
could  swear  that  was  his  rainy-weather  hat.  Also  he 
has  garments  very  much  resembhng  those  leather  small- 
clothes. But  come  in,  I  pray,  for  I  bid  you  hearty  wel- 
come in  his  name." 

So  saying,  the  fair  and  liospitable  dame  took  our  hero 
by  the  hand  ;  and  the  touch  was  light,  and  the  force  was 
gentleness,  and  though  llobin  read  in  her  eyes  what  he 
did  not  hear  in  her  words,  yet  the  slender-waisted  wo- 
man in  the  scarlet  petticoat  proved  stronger  than  the 
atiiletic  country  youth.  She  had  drawn  his  lialf- willing 
footsteps  nearly  to  the  threshold,  when  the  opening  of 
a  door  in  the  neighborhood  startled  the  Major's  house- 
keeper, and,  leaving  the  Major's  kinsman,  she  vanished 
speedily  into  her  own  domicile.  A  heavy  yawn  preceded 
the  appearance  of  a  man,  who,  like  the  Moonshme  of 


MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  243 

Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  carried  a  lantern,  needlessly  aid- 
ing his  sister  luminary  in  the  heavens.  As  he  walked 
sleepily  up  the  street,  he  turned  his  broad,  dull  faee  on 
Robin,  and  displayed  a  long  stall",  si)iked  at  the  end. 

"  Home,  vagabond,  home  !  "  said  the  watchman,  in 
accents  that  seemed  to  fall  asleep  as  soon  as  thoy  were 
uttered.  "  Home,  or  we  '11  set  you  in  the  stocks,  by 
peep  of  day  !  " 

"This  is  the  second  hint  of  the  kind,"  thought  llobin. 
"  I  wish  they  would  end  my  ditlicultics,  by  setthig  me 
there  to-night." 

Nevertheless,  the  youth  felt  an  instinctive  antipathy 
towards  the  guardian  of  midnight  order,  which  at  first 
prevented  him  from  asking  his  usual  question.  But 
just  Avhen  the  man  was  about  to  vanish  behind  the  cor- 
ner, Robin  resolved  not  to  lose  the  opportunity,  and 
shouted  lustily  after  him,  — 

"  I  say,  friend  !  will  yo\i  guide  me  to  the  house  of  my 
kinsnum.  Major  Molineux  ?  " 

The  walclnnan  made  no  reply,  but  turned  the  corner 
and  was  gone  ;  yet  Robin  seemed  to  hear  the  sound  of 
drowsy  laughter  stealing  along  the  solitary  street.  At 
that  moment,  also,  a  pleasant  titter  saluted  him  from  the 
open  wiiulow  above  his  head ;  he  looked  up,  and  caught 
the  sparkle  of  a  saucy  eye  ;  a  round  arm  beckoned  to 
him,  and  next  he  heard  light  footsteps  descending  the 
staircase  within.  But  Robin,  being  of  the  household  of 
a  New  England  clergyman,  was  a  good  youth,  as  well  as 
a  shrewd  one  ;  so  he  resisted  temptation,  and  lied  away. 

He  now  roamed  desperately,  and  at  random,  through 
the  town,  almost  ready  to  believe  that  a  spell  was  on 
liim,  like  that  by  which  a  wizard  of  his  country  had  once 
kept  three  pursuers  Avandering,  a  whole  winter  night, 
within  twenty  paces  of  the  cottage  which  they  sought. 


24-i  MY    KINSMAX,    MAJOE    MOLINEUX. 

Tlie  streets  lay  before  him,  strange  and  desolate,  and  the 
liglits  were  extinguished  in  almost  every  house.  Twico, 
however,  little  parties  of  men,  among  whom  Robin  dis- 
tinguished individuals  in  outlandish  attire,  came  hurry- 
ing along  ;  but  though  on  both  occasions  they  paused  to 
address  him,  such  intercourse  did  not  at  all  enlighten  his 
perplexity.  They  did  but  utter  a  few  words  in  some 
language  of  which  Robin  knew  nothing,  and  perceiving 
his  inability  to  answer,  bestowed  a  curse  upon  him  in 
plain  English,  and  hastened  away.  Finally,  the  lad  de- 
termined to  knock  at  the  door  of  every  mansion  that 
might  appear  worthy  to  fee  occupied  by  his  kinsman, 
trusting  that  perseverance*  would  overcome  the  fatality 
that  had  hitherto  thwarted  him.  Firm  in  this  resolve,  he 
was  passing  beneath  the  walls  of  a  church,  which  formed 
the  corner  of  two  streets,  when,  as  he  turned  into  the 
shade  of  its  steeple,  he  encountered  a  bulky  stranger, 
muffled  in  a  cloak.  The  man  was  proceeding  with  the 
speed  of  earnest  business,  but  Robin  planted  himself  full 
before  liiin,  holding  the  oak  cudgel  with  both  hands 
across  his  body  as  a  bar  to  further  passage. 

"Halt,  honest  man,  and  answer  me  a  question,"  said 
lie,  very  resolutely.  "  Tell  me,  this  instant,  whereabouts 
is  the  dwelling  of  my  kinsman.  Major  Molineux !  " 

"  Keep  your  tongue  between  your  teeth,  fool,  and  let 
me  pass  !  "  said  a  deep,  gruff  voice,  which  Robin  partly 
remembered.  "  Let  me  pass,  I  say,  or  I  '11  strike  you  to 
the  earth  !  " 

"  Tvo,  no,  neighbor ! "  cried  Robin,  flourishing  liis 
cudgel,  and  then  thrusting  its  larger  end  close  to  the 
man's  muffled  face.  "  No,  no,  I  'm  not  the  fool  you  take 
me  for,  nor  do  you  pass  till  I  have  an  answer  to  my 
question.  Whereabouts  is  the  dwelling  of  my  kinsman, 
Major  Molineux  ?  " 


MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  245 

The  stranger,  instead  of  attcmptini^  to  force  liis  pas- 
sage, stepped  back  into  the  moonlight,  unniullled  his 
face,  and  stared  full  into  that  of  Koljin. 

"  Watch  here  an  hour,  and  Major  Molineux  will  pass 
by,"  said  he. 

Robin  gazed  with  dismay  and  astonishment  on  the 
unprecedented  physiognomy  of  the  speaker.  The  fore- 
head with  its  double  prominence,  the  broad  hooked  nose, 
the  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  fiery  eyes  were  tliose  wliich 
he  had  noticed  at  the  inn,  but  the  man's  complexion 
had  undergone  a  singular,  or,  more  properly,  a  twofold 
change.  One  side  of  the  face  blazed  an  intense  red, 
while  the  other  was  black  as  midnight,  the  division  line 
being  in  the  broad  bridge  of  the  nose ;  and  a  mouth 
which  seemed  to  extend  iVom  ear  to  car  was  black  or  red, 
in  contrast  to  the  color  of  the  cheek.  The  etfect  was  as 
if  two  individual  devils,  a  fiend  of  fire  and  a  fiend  of 
darkness,  had  united  themselves  to  form  tiiis  infernal 
visage.  The  stranger  grinned  in  Kobin's  face,  muffled 
his  party-colored  features,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  a 
momsnt. 

"  Strange  things  we  travellers  sec  !  "  ejaculated  "Robin. 

He  seated  himself,  however,  upon  the  steps  of  the 
ehureh-door,  resolving  to  wait  the  appointed  time  for  his 
kinsman.  A  few  moments  were  consumed  in  philosoph- 
ical speculations  upon  the  species  of  man  who  had  just 
left  him  ;  but  having  settled  this  point  shrewdly,  raticm- 
ally,  and  satisfactorily,  he  was  compelled  to  look  else- 
where for  his  amusement.  And  first  he  threw  his  eyes 
along  the  street.  It  was  of  more  respectable  appearance 
than  most  of  those  into  which  he  liad  wandered,  and 
the  moon,  creating,  like  the  imaginative  power,  a  beau- 
tiful strangeness  in  familiar  objects,  gave  something  of 
romance  to  a  scene  that  might  not  have  possessed  it  in 


24:6  MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLINEUX. 

tlie  light  of  day.  The  irregular  and  often  quaint  archi- 
tecture of  the  houses,  some  of  whose  roofs  were  broken 
into  numerous  little  peaks,  while  others  ascended,  steep 
and  narrow,  into  a  single  point,  and  others  again  were 
square ;  the  pure  snow-white  of  some  of  their  complex- 
ions, the  aged  darkness  of  others,  and  the  thousand  sjiark- 
lings,  reflected  from  bright  substances  in  the  walls  of 
many;  these  matters  engaged  Robin's  attention  for  a 
w'hile,  and  then  began  to  grow  wearisome.  Next  he 
endeavored  to  define  the  forms  of  distant  objects,  starting 
away,  with  almost  ghostly  indistinctness,  just  as  his  eye 
appeared  to  grasp  them ;  and  finally  he  took  a  minute 
survey  of  an  edifice  wliich  stood  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  directly  in  front  of  the  church-door,  where  lie 
was  stationed.  It  was  a  large,  square  mansion,  distin- 
guished from  its  neighbors  by  a  balcony,  w^hich  rested  on 
tall  pillars,  and  by  an  elaborate  Gothic  window,  connnu- 
nicating  therewith. 

"Perhaps  this  is  the  very  house  I  have  been  seeking," 
thought  llobin. 

Then  he  strove  to  speed  away  the  time,  by  listening 
to  a  murmur  which  swept  continually  along  the  street, 
yet  was  scarcely  audible,  except  to  an  unaccustomed  ear 
like  his ;  it  was  a  low,  dull,  dreamy  sound,  compounded 
of  many  noises,  each  of  which  was  at  too  great  a  dis- 
tance to  be  separately  heard.  Robin  marvelled  at  this 
snore  of  a  sleeping  town,  and  marvelled  more  whenever 
its  continuity  was  broken  by  now  and  tfien  a  distant 
shout,  apparently  loud  where  it  originated.  But  alto- 
gether it  was  a  sleep-inspiring  sound,  and,  to  shake  off 
its  drowsy  influence,  Robin  arose,  and  climbed  a  window- 
frame,  that  he  might  view  the  interior  of  the  church. 
There  the  moonbeams  came  trembling  in,  and  fell  down 
upon  the  deserted  pews,  and  extended  along  the  quiet 


MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  217 

aisles.  A  fainter  yet  more  awful  radiance  was  hover- 
ing around  the  pulpit,  and  one  solitary  ray  had  dared 
to  rest  upon  the  open  page  of  the  great  Bible.  Had 
nature,  in  that  deep  hour,  become  a  worshipper  in  the 
house  which  man  had  builded?  Or  was  that  heavenly 
light  tlie  visible  sanctity  of  the  place,  —  visible  because 
no  earthly  and  impure  feet  were  within  the  walls  ?  The 
scene  made  Robin's  heart  shiver  with  a  sensation  of  lone- 
liness stronger  than  he  had  ever  felt  in  the  remotest 
depths  of  his  native  woods ;  so  he  turned  away,  and  sat 
down  again  before  the  door.  There  were  graves  around 
the  church,  and  now  an  uneasy  thought  obtruded  into 
llobin's  breast.  What  if  tiie  object  of  his  search,  which 
had  been  so  often  and  so  strangely  thwarted,  were  all 
the  time  mouldering  in  his  shroud  ?  What  if  his  kins- 
man should  glide  through  yonder  gate,  and  nod  and 
smile  to  him  in  dimly  passing  by  ? 

"  O  that  any  breathing  thing  were  here  with  me  !  " 
said  Robin. 

Recalling  his  thoughts  from  this  uncomfortable  track, 
he  sent  them  over  forest,  hill,  and  stream,  and  attempted 
to  imagine  how  that  evening  of  ambiguity  and  weariness 
had  been  spent  by  his  father's  household.  He  ])ietured 
them  assembled  at  the  door,  beneath  the  tree,  tiie  great 
old  tree,  which  had  been  spared  for  its  huge  twisted 
trunk,  and  venerable  shads,  when  a  thousand  leafy  bretii- 
ren  fell.  There,  at  the  going  down  of  the  summer  sun, 
it  was  his  father's  custom  to  perform  domestic  worship, 
that  the  neighbors  might  come  and  join  with  ium  like 
brothers  of  tiic  family,  and  that  the  wayfaring  man  might 
pause  to  drink  at  that  fountain,  and  keep  his  heart  pure 
by  freshening  the  memory  of  home.  Robin  distinguished 
the  seat  of  every  individual  of  the  little  audience  ;  he  saw 
the  good  man  in  the  midst,  holding  the  Scriptures  in  the 


248  MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOU    MOLIXEUX. 

golden  light  that  fell  from  the  western  clouds ;  he  belield 
him  close  the  book  and  all  rise  np  to  pray.  He  heard 
the  old  thanksgivings  for  dail}'  mercies,  the  old  supplica- 
tions for  tlieir  continuance,  to  which  he  had  so  often 
hstened  in  weariness,  but  which  were  now  among  his 
dear  remembrances.  He  perceived  the  slight  inequality 
of  his  father's  voice  when  he  came  to  speak  of  the  absent 
one;  he  noted  how  his  mother  turned  her  face  to  tiie 
broad  and  knotted  trunk  ;  liow  his  elder  brother  scorned, 
because  the  beard  was  rough  upon  his  upper  lip,  to  per- 
mit his  features  to  be  moved ;  how  the  younger  sister 
drew  down  a  low  hanging  branch  before  her  eyes ;  and 
how  the  little  one  of  all,  whose  sports  had  hitherto 
broken  the  decorum  of  the  scene,  understood  the  prayer 
for  her  playmate,  and  burst  into  clamorous  grief.  Then 
he  saw  tliem  go  m  at  the  door ;  and  when  Robin  would 
have  entered  also,  the  latch  tinkled  into  its  place,  and  he 
was  excluded  from  his  home. 

"Am  I  iiere,  or  there  ?"  cried  Uobin,  starting;  for  all 
at  once,  when  his  thoughts  had  become  visible  and  audi- 
ble iit  a  dream,  the  long,  M^ide,  solitary  street  shone  out 
before  him. 

He  aroused  himself,  and  endeavored  to  fix  his  attention 
steadily  upon  the  large  edifice  which  he  had  surveyed 
before.  But  still  his  mind  kept  vibrating  between  fancy 
and  reality  ;  by  turns,  the  pillars  of  the  balcony  length- 
ened into  the  tall,  bare  stems  of  pines,  dwindled  down  to 
human  figures,  settled  again  into  tlieir  true  shape  and 
size,  and  then  commenced  a  new  succession  of  changes. 
For  a  single  moment,  when  he  deemed  himself  awake, 
lie  could  have  sworn  that  a  visage  —  one  which  he  seemed 
to  remember,  yet  could  not  absolutely  name  as  his  kins- 
man's—  was  looking  towards  him  from  the  Gothic  win- 
dow.    A  deeper  sleep  wrestled  with  and  nearly  overcame 


MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  219 

him,  but.  fled  at  the  sound  of  footsteps  along  tlie  opposite 
pavement.  llohin  rubbed  liis  eves,  discerned  a  man 
passing  at  the  foot  of  the  balcony,  and  addressed  liini  in 
a  loud,  peevish,  and  lamentable  crv. 

"  Hallo,  friend  !  must  I  wait  here  all  night  for  mv  kins- 
man, Major  Molineux  ?  " 

The  sleeping  echoes  awoke,  and  answered  the  voice ; 
and  the  passenger,  barely  able  to  discern  a  figure  sitting 
in  the  oblique  shade  of  the  steeple,  traversed  the  street 
to  obtain  a  nearer  view.  He  was  himself  a  gentleman 
in  his  prime,  of  open,  intelligent,  cheerful,  and  altogether 
prepossessing  countenance.  Perceiving  a  country  youth, 
apjjarently  homeless  and  without  friends,  he  accosted  him 
in  a  tone  of  real  kindness,  which  had  become  strange  to 
Robin's  ears. 

"Well,  my  good  Ind,  why  are  you  sitting  here?" 
inquired  he.     "  Can  I  be  of  service  to  you  in  any  way  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  sir,"  replied  Robni,  dcspoudingly ; 
"yet  I  shall  take  it  kindly,  if  you  '11  answer  me  a  single 
question.  I've  been  searching,  half  the  night,  for  one 
Major  Molineux;  now,  sir,  is  there  really  such  a  person 
in  these  parts,  or  am  I  dreaming?" 

"  Major  Molineux  !  The  name  is  not  altogether  strange 
to  me,"  said  the  gentleman,  smiling.  "  Have  you  any 
objection  to  telling  me  the  nature  of  your  business  with 
him?" 

Then  Robin  briefly  related  that  his  father  was  a  cler- 
gyman, .settled  on  a  small  salary,  at  a  long  distance  back 
in  the  country,  and  that  he  and  M;ijor  Molineux  were 
brothers'  children.  The  Major,  having  inherited  riches, 
and  acquired  civil  and  military  rank,  had  visited  his 
cousin,  in  great  ])omp,  a  year  or  two  before ;  had  mnni- 
fested  much  interest  in  Robin  and  an  elder  brother,  and, 
being  childless  himself,  had  thrown  out  hints  respecting 
11  * 


250  MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLINEUX. 

the  future  establishmeut  of  one  of  them  in  life.  The 
elder  brother  was  destined  to  succeed  to  the  farm  which 
his  father  cultivated  in  the  interval  of  sacred  duties ;  it 
\ras  therefore  determined  that  Kobin  should  profit  by  his 
kinsman's  generous  intentions,  especially  as  he  seemed 
to  be  rather  the  favorite,  and  was  thought  to  possess 
other  necessary  endowments. 

"  For  I  have  the  name  of  being  a  shrewd  youth,"  ob- 
served Robin,  in  this  part  of  his  story. 

"  I  doubt  not  you  deserve  it,"  replied  his  new  friend, 
good-naturedly ;  "  but  pray  proceed." 

"  Well,  sir,  being  nearly  eighteen  years  old,  and  well 
grown,  as  you  see,"  continued  Robin,  drawing  himself 
up  to  his  full  height,  "  I  thought  it  high  time  to  begin 
the  world.  So  my  mother  and  sister  put  me  in  hand- 
some trim,  and  my  father  gave  me  half  the  remnant  of 
his  last  year's  salary,  and  five  days  ago  I  started  for  this 
place,  to  pay  the  Major  a  visit.  But,  would  you  believe 
it,  sir !  I  crossed  the  ferry  a  little  after  dark,  and  have 
yet  found  nobody  that  would  show  me  the  way  to  his 
dwelling ;  only,  an  hour  or  two  since,  I  was  told  to  wait 
here,  and  Major  Molineux  would  pass  by." 

"  Can  you  describe  the  man  who  told  you  this  ?  "  in- 
quired the  gentleman. 

"  0,  he  was  a  very  ill-favored  fellow,  sir,"  replied 
Robin,  "  with  two  great  bumps  on  his  forehead,  a  hook 
nose,  fiery  eyes ;  and,  what  struck  me  as  the  strangest, 
his  face  was  of  two  different  colors.  Do  you  happen  to 
know  such  a  man,  sir?  " 

"  Not  intimately,"  answered  the  stranger,  "  but  I 
chanced  to  meet  him  a  little  time  previous  to  your 
stopping  me.  I  believe  you  may  trust  his  word,  and 
that  the  Major  will  very  shortly  pass  through  this  street. 
In  tha  mean  time,  as  I  have  a  siim-ular  curiositv  to  wit- 


MY    KINSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLINEUX.  251 

ness  your  meeting,  I  will  sit  down  here  upon  the  steps, 
and  bear  you  company." 

He  seated  hiniseU"  accordingly,  and  soon  engaged  Ills 
companion  in  animated  discourse.  It  was  but  of  Ijrief 
continuance,  however,  for  a  noise  of  sliouting,  which  had 
long  been  remotely  audible,  drew  so  much  nearer  that 
Robin  inquired  its  cause. 

"  What  may  be  the  meaning  of  this  uproar?  "  asked 
he.  "Truly,  if  your  town  be  always  as  noisy,  I  shall 
find  tittle  sleep,  while  I  am  an  inhabitant." 

"  Why,  indeed,  friend  Robin,  there  do  appear  to  be 
three  or  four  riotous  fellows  abroad  to-night,"  replied  the 
gentleman.  "  You  must  not  ex})ect  all  the  stillness  of 
your  native  woods,  lierc  in  our  streets.  But  the  watch 
will  shortly  be  at  the  heels  of  these  lads,  and  —  " 

"  Ay,  and  set  them  in  the  stocks  by  peep  of  day," 
interrupted  liobin,  recollecting  his  own  encounter  with 
the  dro^\^sy  lantern-bearer.  "  But,  dear  sir,  if  I  may 
trust  my  ears,  an  army  of  watchmen  would  never  make 
head  against  such  a  multitude  of  rioters.  There  were  at 
least  a  thousand  voices  went  up  to  make  that  one  shout." 

"  May  not  a  man  have  several  voices,  Robin,  as  well 
as  two  complexions  ?  "  said  his  friend. 

"  Perhaps  a  man  may ;  but  Heaven  forbid  that  a 
w^oman  shquld !  "  responded  the  shrewd  youth,  thinking 
of  the  seductive  tones  of  the  Major's  housekeeper. 

The  sounds  of  a  trumpet  in  sonic  neighboring  street 
now  became  so  evidenfand  continual,  that  Robin's  curi- 
osity was  strongly  excited.  In  addition  to  the  shouts, 
liee  hard  frequent  bursts  from  many  instruments  of 
discord,  and  a  wild  and  confused  laughter  filled  up  the 
intervals.  Robin  rose  from  the  steps,  and  looked  wist- 
fully towards  a  point  whither  several  people  seemed  to 
be  hasteninfr. 


252  MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX. 

"  Surely  some  prodigious  merry-makiug  is  going  on," 
exclaimed  he.  "  I  have  laughed  very  little  since  I  left 
home,  sir,  and  should  be  sorry  to  lose  au  opportunity. 
Shall  ^ve  step  round  the  corner  by  that  darkish  house, 
and  take  our  share  of  the  fun  ?  " 

"  Sit  down  again,  sit  down,  good  Robin,"  replied  the 
gentleman,  laying  his  haud  on  the  skirt  of  the  gray  coat. 
"  You  forget  that  we  must  wait  here  for  your  kinsman  ; 
and  there  is  reason  to  believe  lliat  he  will  pass  by,  in  tli3 
course  of  a  very  few  moments." 

The  near  approach  of  the  uproar  had  now  disturbed 
the  neighborhood  ;  windows  flew  open  on  all  sides  ;  and 
many  heads,  in  the  attire  of  the  pillow,  and  confused  by 
sleep  suddenly  broken,  were  protruded  to  the  gaze  of 
whoever  had  leisure  to  observe  them.  Eager  voices 
hailed  each  other  from  house  to  house,  all  demanding 
the  explanation,  which  not  a  soul  could  give.  Half- 
dressed  men  hurried  towards  the  unknown  commotion, 
stumbling  as  they  went  over  the  stone  steps  that  thrust 
themselves  into  the  narrow  foot-walk.  The  shouts,  the 
laughter,  and  the  tuneless  bray,  the  antipodes  of  music, 
came  onwards  with  increasing  din,  till  scattered  individu- 
als, and  then  denser  bodies,  began  to  appear  round  a 
corner  at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  yards. 

"  Will  you  recognize  your  kinsman,  if  he  passes  in  this 
crowd  ?  "  inquired  the  gentleman. 

"Indeed,  I  can't  warrant  it,  sir;  but  I'll  take  my 
stand  here,  and  keep  a  bright  lookout,"  answered  Robin, 
descending  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  pavement. 

A  mighty  stream  of  people  now  emptied  into  the 
street,  and  came  rolling  slowly  towards  the  church.  A 
single  horseman  wheeled  the  corner  in  the  midst  of 
them,  and  close  behind  him  came  a  band  of  fearful 
wind-instruments,  sending  forth  a  fresher  discord,  now 


MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  253 

that  no  intervening  buildings  kept  it  from  the  car.  Then 
a  redder  liglit  dibturljcd  llie  nioonheanis,  and  a  dense 
muhitudc  of  torches  shone  along  the  street,  concealing, 
l)j  their  glare,  whatever  object  they  illinninated.  The 
single  liorseman,  clad  in  a  military  dress,  and  bearing  a 
drawn  sword,  rode  onward  as  the  leader,  and,  by  his 
fierce  and  variegated  countenance,  appeared  like  war 
personified  ;  the  red  of  one  cheek  was  an  emblem  of  fire 
and  sword;  the  blackness  of  the  other  betokened  the 
mourning  that  attends  them.  In  his  train  were  wild 
figures  in  the  Indian  dress,  and  many  fantastic  shapes 
without  a  model,  giving  the  whole  march  a  visionary 
air,  as  if  a  dream  had  broken  forth  from  some  feverish 
brain,  and  were  sweeping  visibly  through  the  midnight 
streets.  A  mass  of  people,  inactive,  exce))t  as  applaud- 
ing spectators,  hemmed  the  procession  in  ;  and  several 
women  ran  along  the  sidewalk,  piercing  the  confusion 
of  heavier  sounds  with  their  shrill  voices  of  mirth  or 
terror. 

"  The  double-faced  fellow  has  his  eye  upon  me,"  mut- 
tered Robin,  with  an  indefinite  but  an  uncomfortable 
idea  that  he  was  himself  to  bear  a  part  in  the  pageantry. 

The  leader  turned  himself  in  the  saddle,  and  fixed  iiis 
glance  full  upon  the  country  youth,  as  the  steed  went 
slowly  by.  When  Robin  had  freed  his  eyes  from  those 
fiery  ones,  the  musicians  were  passing  before  him,  and 
the  torches  were  close  at  hand ;  but  the  unsteady  bright- 
ness of  the  latter  formed  a  veil  which  he  could  not 
penetrate.  The  rattling  of  wheels  over  the  stones  some- 
times found  its  way  to  his  car,  and  confused  traces  of  a 
human  form  appeared  at  intervals,  and  then  melted  into 
the  vivid  light.  A  moment  more,  and  the  leader  thun- 
dered a  command  to  halt :  the  trumpets  vomited  a 
horrid  breath,  and  then  held  their  peace  ;  the  shouts  and 


254*  MY    KINSMAN,    MAJOR    MOLINEUX. 

laugliter  of  the  people  died  away,  and  there  remained 
only  a  universal  Imin,  allied  to  silence.  Right  before 
Robin's  eyes  was  an  uncovered  cart.  There  the  torches 
blazed  the  brightest,  there  the  moon  shone  out  like  day, 
and  there,  in  tar-and-feathery  dignity,  sat  his  kinsman. 
Major  Molineux ! 

He  was  an  elderly  man,  of  large  and  majestic  person, 
and  strong,  square  features,  betokening  a  steady  soul ;  but 
steady  as  it  was,  his  enemies  had  found  means  to  shake 
it.  His  face  was  pale  as  death,  and  far  more  ghastly ; 
the  broad  forehead  was  contracted  in  his  agony,  so  that 
his  eyebrows  formed  one  grizzled  line;  his  eyes  were  red 
and  wild,  and  the  foam  hung  white  upon  his  quiver- 
ing lip.  His  whole  frame  was  agitated  by  a  quick  and 
continual  tronor,  which  his  pride  strove  to  quell,  even 
in  those  circumstances  of  overwhelming  humiliation. 
But  perhaps  the  bitterest  pang  of  all  was  when  his  eyes 
met  those  of  Robin;  for  he  evidently  knew  liim  on  the 
instant,  as  the  youth  stood  witnessing  the  foul  disgrace" 
of  a  head  grown  gray  in  'honor.  They  stared  at  each 
otiier  in  silence,  and  Robin's  knees  shook,  and  his  hair 
bristled,  with  a  mixture  of  pity  and  terror.  Soon,  how- 
ever, a  bewildering  excitement  began  to  seize  upon  his 
mind ;  the  preceding  adventures  of  the  night,  the  unex- 
pected appearance  of  the  crowd,  the  torches,  the  confused 
din  and  the  hush  that  followed,  the  spectre  of  his  kins- 
man reviled  by  that  great  multitude, — all  th's,  aud,  more 
than  all,  a  perception  of  tremendous  ridicule  in  the  whole 
scene,  affected  him  with  a  sort  of  mental  inebriety.  At 
that  moment  a  voice  of  sluggish  merriment  saluted  Rob- 
in's ears;  he  turned  instinctively,  and  just  behind  the 
corner  of  the  church  stood  the  lantern-bearer,  rubbing 
his  eyes,  and  drowsily  enjoying  the  lad's  amazement. 
Then  he  heard  a  peal  of  laughter  like  the  ringing  of  sil- 


MY    KINSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXEUX.  'ZoiJ 

very  bells;  a  woman  twitched  his  arm,  a  saucy  eye  met 
his,  and  he  saw  the  lady  of  the  scarlet  })etticoat.  A 
sharp,  dry  cachinnation  appealed  to  his  memory,  and, 
standing  on  tiptoe  in  tiie  crowd,  with  iiis  white  apron 
over  his  head,  he  beheld  the  courteous  little  innkeeper. 
And  lastly,  there  sailed  over  the  heads  of  the  multitude  a 
great,  broad  laugii,  broken  in  the  midst  by  two  sepulchral 
liems ;  thus,  "  Haw,  haw,  haw,  —  hem,  hem,  —  haw,  haw, 
haw,  haw !  " 

Tiie  sound  proceeded  from  the  balcony  of  the  opposite 
edifice,  and  thither  Robin  turned  iiis  eyes.  In  front  of 
the  Gothic  window  stood  the  old  citizen,  wra])j)ed  hi  a 
wide  gown,  his  gray  periwig  exchanged  for  a  nightcap, 
which  was  thrust  back  from  his  forehead,  and  his  silk 
stockings  hanging  about  his  legs.  He  supported  him- 
self on  his  polished  cane  in  a  fit  of  convulsive  merri- 
ment, which  manifested  itself  on  his  solemn  old  features 
like  a  funny  inscription  on  a  tombstone.  Then  llobin 
seemed  to  hear  the  voices  of  the  barbers,  of  the  guesls 
of  the  inn,  and  of  all  wiio  had  made  sport  of  him  that 
night.  The  contagion  was  spreading  among  the  multi- 
tude, Avhen,  all  at  once,  it  seized  upon  llobin,  and  he 
sent  forth  a  shout  of  laughter  that  echoed  through  the 
street;  —  every  man  shook  his  sides,  every  man  emptied 
liis  lungs,  but  llobin's  shout  was  the  loudest  there.  The 
cloud-spirits  peeped  from  their  silvery  islands,  as  the 
congregated  mirth  went  roaring  up  the  sky  I  The  Man 
in  the  Moon  heard  the  far  bellow.  "  Oho,"  quoth  he, 
"the  old  earth  is  frolicsome  to-night !  " 

When  there  was  a  momentary  calm  in  that  tempestu- 
ous sea  of  sound,  the  leader  gave  the  sign,  the  proces- 
sion resumed  its  march.  On  they  went,  like  fiends  that 
throng  in  mockery  around  some  dead  potentate,  mighty 
no  more,  but  majestic  still  in  his  agony.     On  they  went. 


256  MY    KIXSMAX,    MAJOR    MOLIXELX. 

in  counterfeited  pomp,  in  senseless  uproar,  in  frenzied 
merriment,  trampling  all  on  an  old  man's  heart.  On 
s^A■cpt  the  tumult,  and  left  a  silent  street  bcliiud. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  Well,  Robin,  are  you  dreaming  ?  "  inquired  the  gen- 
tleman, laving  his  hand  on  the  youth's  shoulder. 

Robin  started,  and  withdrew  his  arm  from  the  stone 
post  to  which  he  had  instinctively  clung,  as  flie  living 
stream  rolled  by  him.  His  cheek  was  somewhat  pale, 
and  his  eye  not  quite  as  lively  as  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
evening. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  show  me  the  way  to  the 
ferry  ?  "  said  he,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  You  have,  then,  adopted  a  new  subject  of  inquiry  ? " 
observed  his  companion,  with  a  smile. 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,"  replied  Robin,  rather  dryly.  "  Thanks 
to  you,  and  to  my  other  friends,  I  have  at  last  met  my 
kinsman,  and  he  will  scarce  desire  to  see  my  face  again. 
I  begin  to  grow  weary  of  a  town  life,  sir.  Will  you  show 
me  the  way  to  the  ferry  ?  " 

"No,  my  good  friend  Robin, —not  to-night,  at  least," 
said  the  gentleman.  "  Some  few  days  hence,  if  you 
wish  it,  I  will  speed  you  on  your  journey.  Or,  if  you 
prefer  to  remain  with  us,  perhaps,  as  you  are  a  shrewd 
youth,  you  may  rise  in  the  world  without  the  help  of 
your  kinsman,  Major  Moliueux." 


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